Trust
by RapiDe
Summary: Jason Bourne and Sydney Bristow, an Assassin and a Spy, old and young. They have nothing in common, or do they? A Crossover What if?
1. Chapter 1

Legal disclaimers: I do not own or lay claim to anything created or owned by either Robert Ludlum, the people who created the "Jason Bourne" films or the "Alias" t.v. show, I'm just borrowing characters and ideas from both to write an original story. However, anything original to this story belongs to me, in the form of characters, plots and ideas. The characters Monica Messolina/Talia, Katya "Kate" Aquila/Selene, Mavra Kalia Rasputin/Raven and Cole are all of my creation, so ask if you want to borrow them.

Disclaimers: This story will probably be confusing at the very least for most, but its something I wanted to try. Violence of the level you might see in the Bourne films will be portrayed and spoilers will be given regarding all three of Robert Ludlum's Bourne trilogy and both of the films. A Y stands for a page break, which seems to be the only way I can create one on . The story is set in Season 4 of "Alias", relatively early in the Season but after we get the origin on Nadia Santos. To summarise:

There are two Jason Bourne's, not one. The original is an old man long retired, the new one is the one in the films.

A slightly AU version of an explanation of Sydney Bristow's missing two years will be revealed.

This story totally ignores the events of "The Bourne Legacy" by Eric Van Lustbader. As for why, the original trilogy was a work of genius, the new addition is just a poor cash-in.

I doubt I need to literally spell this out, but this is an Alias/Jason Bourne crossover. It focuses on the Alias team, though, so I'm filing it as an Alias fic.

Finally, Alias Season 4 is set in 2007 if you include Sydney's "Julia Thorne" missing years. That's the timeline for this story.

All Reviews of any kind welcomed.

**The Last Day**

_Prologue... _

_Berlin, 2007_

The old warehouse was built of cold grey stone, heavy metal double doors at either end the height of a tall man and several large windows designed to illuminate the inside while preventing access thanks to double-glazing and reinforced design. Inside, barely illuminated at all by the dull moonlight of a dark summer night, a light hindered further by dusty, filthy windows not cleaned in ten years, a large, broad concrete floor was empty except for scraps of rubbish, the occasional discarded magazine and some worn wooden tables grouped together in the centre of the floor.

In one corner, twenty feet off the floor and only accessible by a metal ladder walkway with loose steps, a small, enclosed office area nestled, walkways extending out from it around the entire warehouse. The office was small and unremarkable, the only structure inside the warehouse of any kind, with small windows covered with metal shutters and a single door-but for one thing: a dim electric light could still be seen shining out from under the half-shut door, a light which illuminated a patch of blood directly beneath where the closed door would sit.

Scattered around the office and the floor area near it were six unmoving bodies, five men and one woman. One of the men, a dark-brown haired and eyed large young man who was visibly carrying a little too much weight, was lying on the ground beneath the office with one leg distinctly crooked beneath him. His head rolled to the left limp and still, a pool of blood slowly forming under his face as it dripped from his battered mouth. Clearly hurt and helpless, the man known as Eric Weiss would unlikely be doing anything at all physical any time soon.

Lying not far from him, so close that they were nearly touching, her posture suggesting that she'd been reaching for him as they fell, was a young woman. In her mid twenties, with jet-black hair in a tight ponytail that fell halfway down her back, soft light brown eyes hidden beneath closed eyelids, swarthy skin that spoke of her Argentinean roots and firm red lips parted in an expression of pain, the strikingly beautiful young woman appeared to be unconscious. Unfortunately, she only wished she was. Her jet-black CIA Tactical gear and uniform hadn't provided her with any real protection at all.

Nadia Santos groaned again, tried to move-but suddenly had to stop as hideous pain shot through her entire body. A sharp hiss escaped through clenched teeth even as she tasted blood in her mouth, then she breathed in sharply as the awful shock of her fall began to drain away. To say that everything merely "hurt" was akin to saying being shot in the head merely "tingled", she felt like she'd been worked over with a sharp sledgehammer and had every limb broken on top of that.

Every muscle in her body was screaming at her in a way that spoke of whole new forms of pain radiating out from the whole of her abused body. No bones were broken, but that was a minor Miracle combined with the luck of the Devil. She felt almost soggy in nature, boneless, as though she had no strength and less will to exercise any self-control at all. She couldn't move, couldn't speak, she was only breathing because it didn't require conscious effort...

If Bourne found her like this he could kill her in a second and there would be nothing she could do about it, at all. Was she actually going to _die_ in this old warehouse during this cold German night, thousands of miles away from home, if she could even call the USA that? More importantly, was she ever going to see Sydney again...? Or, just maybe, her father...?

A sudden commotion sounded from the office above, smashed glass fell apart, an awful clang of flesh on metal that could only have been caused by someone being thrown, very hard, against a heavy immovable object. A brief cry of pain echoed through the stillness before being cut off, just enough to snatch away the last few slight threads of hope Nadia had left to her. _Sydney_. She knew her Sisters voice as well as that of anyone alive, better than anyone else in fact-bar maybe Jack... That cry could only mean one thing: Sydney was down, their last hope was gone. So just what was going to happen now?

She heard cat-light footsteps descending the staircase, so perfectly placed and silenced she could barely identify them, but the heavier tread gave him away. Sidney had never walked like that, nor had any of the APO team. It took superhuman effort, she almost bit through her lip, but she forced her eyes to open, to focus, to take in the almost invisible killer-_Assassin_, she bitterly reminded herself-coming down the steps. He'd have to look her in the eyes to kill her...

She caught a moments glimpse of dark-blond hair, grey eyes and a powerful, lean body covered by black fatigues before he shot her a smile and simply left, not even glancing at her again. The shock alone almost killed her, then she finally registered her fathers voice roaring at her over Comms in her ear...

/End of Prologue. I know its short, but you've got to start somewhere. Feedback/ should I go on, anyone?/


	2. Chapter 2

For all Disclaimers: See part 1.

All Reviews welcomed.

**The Last Day **

_One week earlier_

_Bright Beach, Australia_

As she relaxed back into her deckchair, reclining like a purring cat in the brilliant sunshine, the tall woman couldn't help but wish that her closest companion could be there with her. After all they'd been through together they'd more than earned a vacation in a place where one could literally afford to "splash out", but Julia had disappeared completely before she could even propose such an idea. It was worse than a shame, she would have loved it here.

The sky was cloudless, the beach golden, the sea a perfect, flawless blue. She was strongly tempted to go for a swim, but she was waiting on a call so it could wait. It was only mid-afternoon, for one thing, she had the whole day to herself and whatever she wanted to do was up to her. Nobody knew her here...

Her given name was Monica Messolina, but almost every man on the broad expanse of beach who had even glanced her way would have preferred to call her something else: _pleasure_. Even just lying still, doing nothing but tanning and relaxing, people turned in her direction as though they'd lost something and were never quite sure what. When they saw her, the answer became both easy and obvious.

Very dark mahogany-brown hair fell loose over shoulders and chest down to her waist, finer than silk and even more perfect to the touch. Dark gold-flecked mahogany brown eyes shaded by elegant eyelashes shone with both intelligence and a strange allure, almost an invitation, that no one could refuse. Darkly devastating, with an impossibly perfect classical Roman beauty so stunning words were a lack of description and the imagination failed, a long, lean and slender body forged of firm full curves and her tawny skin, everyone stuttered when they saw her. A voice of liquid pleasure mixed with sweetest honey made people walk away to simply survive, this kind of woman was one you never simply "had". Wearing a close-fitting jet-black bikini and round blue-black sunglasses, which barely decently covered her, nothing was easily left to the imagination.

That was the way she wanted it, a fact that so few people realised. Beautiful women had both a blessing and a curse at their immediate disposal, the fact that few women and even fewer men would look past such distractions while those that did would, if played right, never realise what else there was to see. Even at thirty-seven she could have had the nearest sixteen-year-old mass of testosterone and bravado eating out of her hand, literally, within seconds of making eye contact. That was something she'd always excelled at, if asked she'd have referred the speaker to anyone who'd spent time in her company.

The Satellite phone she had in the bag slung across the back of her chair rang suddenly. She lazily reached up and plucked it out before the second ring. Even the slightest movement was a pleasure to watch, her whole physique being a description of focused power and feral grace, flawless in nature and execution. She stretched slightly, sat up a little and put the phone to her ear. "Messolina, speak" she said, her strong Italian accent flooding into her voice.

"_They've found her_" said the voice on the line, without discussion. With a strong English accent and marked pronunciation the speaker had the kind of voice one could pick out anywhere. Who she was was a separate matter.

"I see. Does she have any idea who's coming or what's happening?" replied Monica, moving to the edge of her seat as she woke up fully.

"_Not a clue. If we don't get in the way she's dead, whether or not she knows it. Will you be attending?_" replied the speaker.

"Are you serious? Apart from that, do I need to know anything in particular?" replied Monica sharply.

"_Unfortunately, yes. I didn't want to break it to you like this, but I have limited time given the cover I'm working on. Jason Bourne is back. He's been spotted in Russia, Germany, here in Britain, Canada and, most recently, the USA. Even worse than that, the CIA has found out and is setting up an elite Task Force to bring him in or down once and for all. Worst of all, he's been leaving a trail of bodies wherever he goes. These people go from young to elderly and a number are very powerful, influential people where they exist, but he hasn't been so much as slowed yet. MI6 hasn't been able to work out what the Hell he's up to, nor have I. No-one has any idea where he's going next, either. Anything to contribute, please?_" asked the speaker.

"...Treadstone..." whispered Monica, so quietly she barely heard herself. Thankfully, the speaker on the phone didn't either.

"_Repeat, I didn't get that_..." said the speaker. Neither of them said anything for a long moment, then Monica spoke again.

"Theories and possibilities. I haven't seen the man in five years, how should _I_ know? What about "Laura"? Anything new?" replied Monica, her voice harsh. The speaker didn't need to know her as well as she did to take the hint.

"_No, she's dropped off the world as far as can be gathered, she's not answering anyone regarding anything via front, back or even exceptional channels. She hasn't been seen by anyone for over a year now, either, last reported heading for Italy I understand. _

_Anna's confirmed secured in a maximum security CIA facility which the Agency won't even admit exists, not least because they have a varying number around the country which are always on the move to keep certain prisoners from being easily found by people who might want to meet them. Cole is Cole, he's off killing people somewhere in the deep forests of DRC for the fun of it I understand. I'm not insane enough to even try to keep track of the Raven. Were down to three warm bodies unless you want to hunt down Anna, that's my report and conclusion. Anything else?_" asked the speaker.

"Given what's coming, we'll need every set of eyes and hands available. I'll track down Cole, he'll help me with Anna, you deal with your own action. I'll call Irina myself and get hold of the Raven if I can't reach her. Find out what the Evolution Cadre are up to before they reach LA or we'll be chasing our own tails the whole time were in the USA. To be clear, I have no intention of duelling with every Security and Intelligence Agency in that country just to help a...friend, no matter who or what she is to me. My intel suggests that the EC are out for blood but are still as fanatical as ever about the Lazarus Agenda, you know where Julia fits into that. See what you can dig up and get back to me" ordered Monica, silently ending her Vacation. It really was a shame Julia wasn't still around, there was so much they could have done together...

"_Are you sure it's a good idea to include Irina Derevko in this after what happened? I recall her threatening to gut you with her bare hands after she found out what happened between you and Julia, let alone after that disaster in Cairo? Irina's crazy enough to hire someone to kill even you, you know_" asked the speaker.

"I'm not insane or suicidal, so I'm not going to find out what would happen to me if the Raven didn't hear this from me, clear? Now get to work, I'll take care of my end" said Monica, before hanging up. She slowly took a deep breath before, with a sigh and a frown, dialling a number which only existed in her memory. It connected after two rings, not many people ever called Irina Derevko's private line directly.

"Hello, Irina...? " began Monica, switching to flawless Russian without a pause...

_Los Angeles, APO Headquarters_

A few inches below six feet tall, slim and slender with waist-length hair, physically solid with compact muscle concealing her real strength, strikingly beautiful and a certified genius, the woman who quietly edged her way to the edge of the underground station could never have been referred to as ordinary. Her first job as a Bank Teller at Credit Dauphine would have puzzled most people who met her, but the truth would have shocked them.

It had nearly killed her five years earlier, leaving behind pains in the process that would never really go away, that she'd never, _ever_ get over. Now she knew what she was really doing and why she did it, which helped, a little, but sometimes she still found herself asking "Why?" When life revolved around insanity every single day, answers were never easy to come by...

When Sydney Bristow reached APO's underground headquarters after being paged, walking off the near-deserted station through the old service door that concealed their ultra-modern headquarters from the rest of the world, she wasn't at all surprised to find everyone else already there. The surprises came from somewhere else, but she smiled as she took in the room, her chestnut eyes scanning every face present as her loose chestnut-brown hair shifted about her shoulders.

Her younger sister, Nadia Santos, swarthy-skinned, dark-haired and eyed, a youthful beauty in her mid twenties with sharp edges. She shot Sidney a quick smile as they locked eyes. Michael Vaughn, early thirties like herself, strikingly handsome and well built with hawk eyes that missed nothing, dark brown hair and dark-green eyes highlighting his smooth face. A touch of French blood from his mother sharpened his features while hard experience made his eyes cool, his once-common smile absent. That didn't stop a broad smile spreading across his face into his eyes, displaying perfect teeth as he grinned at her.

She shot him a wicked look in return, yet again glad that this was the man she'd finally ended up with, a man who could keep up with her if not necessarily match her, somewhere she could go when things got just too bad for her alone. With a former lover who'd turned out to be a Serial Killer, a Fiancée murdered by her employer of the time, who she'd believed to be part of the CIA but weren't, a best friend she'd slept with when things would never have gone that far if they weren't both drunk... She'd known Vaughn for three years and trusted him as much as anyone she knew, including her father, who she once would have gone to with anything at all.

Next to Vaughn round the briefing table was Eric Weiss, chunky, solid and ever-smiling with a round face best described as cute in Sidney's opinion, an opinion she suspected her sister silently shared. There was no deep affection there, not really, there were just two people who liked each other a lot and had decided to do something about it. She very much doubted it would last... With chocolate-brown eyes and hair added to soft good looks in his late thirties, Weiss was a good Agent but only rarely a brilliant one. Next to Vaughn's lean strength and solidarity people didn't often really notice him, a fact he turned to his advantage.

With black skin, dark-brown hair and eyes, fifty-odd year old family man Marcus Dixon was Sydney's favoured Partner. As tough as granite, always thinking then acting unless the situation called for the other way around, physically solid with an impressive mind and resume of experience both in and out of the field, a man who was utterly dependable who would only be stopped from doing his duty by death. Sydney had trusted him with her life unhesitatingly since they met a decade ago. The assassination of his wife had put shadows behind his eyes and a darkness in his heart, he didn't smile much any more and easy, flippant talk rarely happened, but, deep down, he was still the same man she'd known all these years. If she'd wanted anyone watching her back once and for all, even including Vaughn, it would have been him.

Marshall Flinkman, their resident technological genius and motor mouth, was next. Sydney's age but seemingly still a bubbly, bouncy and nervous teenager inside, his brown hair was dark, his eyes a bright grey. Always dressed in loose, comfortable clothes rather than the official suits everyone else wore, he was a technological genius and a social disaster area. Smooth faced and always talking, though, he still managed to endear himself to everyone by some means. He'd somehow managed to pick up a wife and gained a son along the way, a fact that still made Sidney's head spin when she thought about it. Even if he was really the most normal of the lot of them.

Then her father. A big man in his mid-fifties with black hair gone mainly grey, ice-cold brown eyes and a worn, ageing face that was more of a mask than any disguise he'd ever used. He rarely showed emotion, never lost his temper and kept himself to himself so much that even his own daughter barely knew him. Cold, ruthless and lethal in nature and action, he'd been burnt too many times by life in his chosen profession and no longer really trusted anyone. Almost incapable of even forming day-to-day friendships any longer, the only person he really spent time with any more was Arvin Sloane, Director of APO and his old Partner in arms from his youthful CIA days. A man commonly believed to be capable of anything to get the job done, he had only one real weakness: his daughter, her.

Finally, a man Sydney honestly loathed even looking at. Arvin Sloane, Nadia's own father. With his receding salt and pepper hair, neatly trimmed short beard and eyes of arctic cold blue, his rough face made one think of nothing more than a lizard to Sydney, a man always scheming, planning and plotting who was using everyone and everything else to achieve his own aims and goals. A smaller man than Jack Bristow, he was compact, muscular and truly vicious when angry, otherwise being possessed of only an almost disturbingly calm and organised manner that very rarely slipped to reveal what Sidney considered to be the true savage beneath. The only people he'd ever shown any tenderness to were his dead wife, Emily, daughter Nadia and Sydney, who he liked to consider his daughter after years of neglect by a distant Jack. Sydney, for her part, hated him with a passion and believed that Nadia would too once she saw the truth.

Two more people were present, the presence of whom was unexpected since Sydney knew one and not the other. The first was Hayden Chase, a middle-aged black woman still striking in her middle years, black hair and brown eyes gleaming in the lights of the APO HQ. She was the senior Director of the CIA and, rarely, paid APO a visit if something particularly important came up. She sometimes came just to check up on Sloane, everyone knew, but Sloane expected that.

Sydney had to remind herself not to smirk every time she saw the older woman these days, though. She'd caught a snippet of conversation between Chase and Dixon a few weeks back and seen the expression on Chases face at Dixon's question. If she didn't know it was impossible, she'd have sworn there was something going on between the two of them.

The last was a woman of about the same age as Chase, brown eyes, blonde hair, slim and fit, sharply dressed and with an expression which made clear she was all business. Attractive but no beauty, she struck as the absolutely competent kind of Agent who rarely ever set foot in the field but knew everything everyone else wanted to and how to use it. Sharp eyes locked with Sydney's and the woman briefly nodded to her, an action which Sydney returned, oddly puzzled. She'd never met or even seen this woman before, had she...?

As she took her seat Sloane moved to the head of the table, immediately gaining everyone's attention. Chase shot him a look and he started quickly. Evidently, something significant was occurring here.

"Let me begin this briefing by welcoming our two guests. Director Chase you all know, but our new arrival is Deputy Director Pamela Landy, in charge of Special Projects and Operations at Langley. Due to exceptional circumstances and the nature of this mission, the Deputy Director will be briefing you all, not myself. Director Chase is here to clarify points which will be raised and answer certain questions you will all have. Madame Deputy Director, over to you" said Sloane, sitting down.

Glances were quickly thrown around the briefing room at this even as Landy stood. Special Projects and Operations was the sub-Division of the CIA that specialised in extreme or exceptional actions and technological development, more often than not Covert, that required total lack of knowledge from all involved. That was a way of putting it that everyone could understand. Another was that it did the dirty work of the CIA where there was none, which made such a direct introduction of its Director simply odd, even for APO.

APO was Director Chases brain child, an elite team of top Agents who operated completely independently from Langley and official control to get the job done quick and clean, the hard way if necessary, no questions asked in return for results. APO answered only to Chase unless something terrible or catastrophic occurred-unless its cover was blown, in which case none of the team worked for the CIA anyway. That it existed outside of Special Projects and Operations was the exception, not the rule, a considerable exception given that even Project: Black Hole fell into Landy's sphere of influence. Just what did that mean for this meeting? Sydney had to wonder, making sure she displayed nothing on her face or in her eyes at all.

Landy stood up and moved to the head of the table, tossing long blonde hair over her shoulder as she did. "Thank you, Director Sloane. Now, first of all I have to ask one question. Does anyone here apart from the Director and his Chief of Staff recognise the name Jason Bourne, or have any idea of the true nature of Treadstone?" asked Landy, glancing around at every face. She had to have checked their Files, everyone knew, so it was an odd question, but it was an odd business they were in.

"I do, or at least I've heard of Jason Bourne. A supposedly elite Assassin who was so good at his job he hit everyone from heads of State to oil Sheikhs to Terrorist leaders to undesirables throughout Asia, Europe, the Middle East, Africa and North America without being seen even once, let alone captured. Back during the 70's and 80's, though, he disappeared about twenty years ago now as I recall. Why?" replied Dixon, looking puzzled and surprised at the same time.

Pamela Landy just smiled at this. "Very good, Agent Dixon, but not quite right. There was a Jason Bourne who existed and functioned back then, certainly, but this is what you don't know: ten years ago, a man using the name Jason Bourne surfaced in the USA before moving to Europe and Asia, apparently following the hunting patterns of the original Assassin. Certain things we do know for sure, though, such as that this man is _not_ the original Assassin himself, he's some thirty years younger for one thing. Apart from that, we actually know who he is. Since I made sure all of you have Level 5 Clearance at least, I can now show you what I mean" said Landy, picking up the hand control for the video screen and pressing a button.

The video screen went black for a moment, then the picture of a man Sidney estimated at around thirty years of age when the picture was taken appeared on the screen. Dark blonde hair was swept to the right on his head, grey eyes gleamed in a smooth, gently handsome face with small lips while his face was set in a polite smile for the camera. His shoulders were in-shot as well, showing him to be solidly built and compactly muscular with straight shoulders. He wasn't hugely muscular or visually distinctive in any way, closer to being the opposite in truth. He didn't look particularly dangerous, or crazy, or simply "off" in any of a thousand ways she knew to look for. He was just...no one special, somehow.

That, though, by itself undoubtedly set alarm bells ringing with everyone around the table seeing him for the first time. One of the first rules of the Spy trade you learned was that anything apparently simple never, EVER was in reality, the more obvious it appeared the more likely you knew nothing at all. More to the point in this case, there was no way at all that the senior Director of the CIA and a senior Deputy Director would have made one of her rare field trips to the APO office just to show them a mans face. Sydney instantly found herself wondering just who-and _what_-this man really was. Cliché, perhaps, but a man that ordinary could get away with anything because no one would suspect him of it...

"Gentlemen and ladies" said Landy, her voice drawing their attention like the crack of a whip as she easily filled it with an authority which made you want to listen. "Meet Jason Bourne".

_Virginia, USA_

The old house was huge and richly designed, grey-walled with massive stone blocks for walls, broad glass windows, red-tile roof and an entrance passageway which started in a wooden shelter six foot from the main building. Scattered around were smaller buildings, sheds, guesthouses, a big warehouse, past all of which a long tarmac driveway led before turning full circle in front of the main house.

The property itself was huge, its wire-fenced boundaries containing most of a deep forest, part of a small river and acres of green land. It had once belonged to a man who could have made and broken Presidents, torn down the economy and changed the course of political and industrial history in the USA, but he had died in a plane crash in 1990 leaving no heirs or Will.

That was what had lead the old man there. Aleksei Nikolae Konsolikov, Alexander Conklin, "Saint" Alex of the CIA, former legend, Retired myth, Veteran of too many Wars, survivor of far too much pain. A man with a prosthetic right foot replacing the real one he'd lost to a mine in Vietnam, a man who'd sent his best friend into Hell for years for the right reasons and never expected to see him again, a man who'd killed everyone he'd ever loved who hadn't been stronger than he ever was. He was a man who'd sold his Soul and never received the price.

Round-shouldered, overweight, heavy-jowelled and massively wrinkled, thin white hair still shot through with traces of grey sat in unruly lines on his head. His eyes were brown and possessed a strange, luminous quality that cut through anyone who met them like a knife, as though the old man kept secrets from everyone but himself because only he could tell someone the truth.

People still sometimes said that the one man who really knew everything was the former top field scout of the CIA, who sat in his great house all day long and did nothing but think, remember. In his mid-seventies, it was no surprise that he did to most. If the Saint couldn't find enough inside his own mind to keep himself alive for his natural span and more, no one could. Sometimes, though, he did other things as well.

For one thing, he still read, watched and listened to everything he possibly could and let certain people know what he found, after which those people were free to do whatever they liked with what he knew. For another thing, a truly incredible, brilliant mind that had let him live through over forty years of service to his country and still survive now had never missed anything. He hadn't missed anything over the past five months, nor had he failed to make the connection only four other people in the world had between the victims CNN had so casually listed and what had happened to them.

That was why the former alcoholic turned clean-and-sober lonely old man was simply sitting staring at a glass of Bourbon Whiskey as he listened to CNN going over the details again and again on a looped tape he'd set up. That was why his old friend could never understand the expression on Conklin's face when he walked in to the sitting room, to see and hear something he couldn't hope to absorb. Later, he would wish he'd never asked.

Morris Panov took one look at his old friend sitting still and silent, watching over and over again a looped tape of CNN broadcasts while current footage continued in the background, took in the alcoholic drink and simply sat down in one of the fat armchairs. In his mid-sixties, bald and thickset with a thin body and smooth face, blue eyes gleaming sharp in his face, Mo Panov had known Alex Conklin for almost thirty years and seen him go from middle-aged to old in a short lifetime. He'd seen him in just about every kind of mood and state of mind. That was why what he saw now managed to truly disturb him, when he just could not understand the look in Conklin's eyes, on his face.

A trained, professional Psychologist who had worked in the field his entire life with an easy brilliance that had gotten him the attention of the CIA, among others, while he was still in his twenties, long before such things were considered important, he'd been a shadow in dark corridors his entire life. One of only two men alive who really understood the complicated, brilliant mind, thoughts and actions of the former CIA agent he was with, it was a very rare time when he found himself honestly surprised now. This, though...this was disturbing. Conklin wasn't saying or doing _anything_, something simply alien to his nature. Always planning, thinking, acting the old man was, even now...

"Alex?" asked Panov, trying to get his attention and seemingly failing. "Alex? What is it?" he tried again, almost too quietly to hear over the noise of the television. Conklin simply didn't respond, but the sound abruptly went off as he hit Mute. Then, very slowly, he turned and looked Panov right in the eye. Panov involuntarily shivered, Conklin looked like he'd seen the Gates of Hell, only there was something truly terrible just waiting to happen before he got there.

"Treadstone, Mo" said Alex, slowly, his words seemingly dragged out of him from a place hidden away deep inside as his rough voice almost growled. "Its all about Treadstone, isn't it? Medusa gone forever, Jason Bourne Retired, the Monk dead, yet it all comes back to Treadstone again like were stuck in some kind of insane circle of pain. Can't anyone ever give enough? Here, read my notes and make up your own mind" said Conklin, pulling a notebook out of his shirt pocket and tossing it to Panov. He took his ravens-head oak cane in his right hand and slowly stood, even as Panov scanned the notes made in Conklin's sharp handwriting-Panov stopped, read it all again, carefully, slowly. Then he went pale.

Conklin limped over to the house telephone-as secure as anything in Langley he knew for certain-picked up the phone and started dialling. Some people needed to hear this...

"Alex? I knew your Nephew was dead, and Ward Abbot, but these others... They _all_ worked for Treadstone at some point, young or old? They're _all_ dead? This is unspeakable... Who could-Hell, _how_ could-?!" Panov began, but Conklin cut him off.

"_He_ could, we both know it, you even better than me. As for how, someone with access got them for him, no document on Earth has all those names signed on it but you can follow the trail if you know what to look for. Not easy, but I did it for this list and now...? We'll find out" said Conklin. A woman's voice came on the line asking for identification, Conklin snapped off his ID harsh and sharp, getting himself put through in seconds. You didn't have discussions with people who could cause changes to National Security policy if you were a Secretary.

"McAllister, Edward Norton McAllister, remember him?" asked Conklin, in response to Panov's look. Rolled eyes were his answer.

"Of course, I was in Kowloon too. He's Special Adviser to the White House for Homeland Security and Foreign Policy under the NSA now, isn't he? Although I hear tell that he still has a few links left with the NSC, CIA and Pentagon" said Panov, his tone almost dry with humour. Panov had never liked McAllister personally, but Conklin knew he had the greatest respect for the man professionally. Such extensive knowledge of what the man did these days just proved the fact.

"He's also on the staff of the Dragon Throne Taskforce, but the less said about that the better. David can take care of himself and he'll have seen the pattern by now, McAllister has other things on his mind. I need to warn him, not least for our sakes. Oh, flip to the back of the book, will you?" said Conklin even as McAllister's smoke-roughened voice came on the line.

Panov did-then stopped, eyes wide. There was a list there, Conklin said he'd worked out who was associated with Treadstone in its entirety...

TREADSTONE:

_Surviving: _

_David Webb-Amnesia._

_Alexander Conklin, Snr, ex-CIA Agent (Retired)._

_Morris Panov-Retired Psychologist/Mentor._

_Edward Norton McAllister-Special Advisor to White House._

_Jonathan Bristow-CIA Agent._

_Nicky Drake-CIA Analyst and Handler._

_Dean Devlin-ex-CIA Director (Retired)._

_Jeremiah Kosolev-German industrialist and Source._

_New York_

As he stood in the apartment block window looking out on the city, he couldn't help but wonder, yet again, if he'd ever done this before. Yet again, his shattered memory failed him and he was left with no answers at all. It was more frustrating than he could put into words, or even express verbally, so he tended let everyone know physically. He'd been a lot of that over the past five months, an awful lot of that, dozens of people, but it had to be done. One way or another, the bastards HAD to be persuaded to leave him alone once and for all. He not only couldn't, he _wouldn't_ live like a hunted animal any more...

Bare-chested and wearing worn old jeans, his lean body was visibly forged and sculpted like steel, tougher than adamantine and more flexible than any gymnasts. Just short of six feet tall, his hair was dark-blonde and straight-combed on his head, his grey eyes cutting through everyone from a gently handsome face. Physically powerful, compact and controlled in nature, when added to his whip-quick trained reflexes and extraordinary physical skill Jason Bourne's body was a weapon, pure and simple. Added to that he had extremely extensive combat training, armed and unarmed, a mind and body that didn't make mistakes and the will to do whatever it took. He was worse than a weapon, a killer pure and simple, he'd been born and bred to fight and it was reaching the point it was all he knew.

That needed to stop, though, and soon, or he was going to slip right off of the small slippery area of sanity he'd found hidden away in his own mind, go so mad he'd kill everyone and anyone who so much as tried to get in his way until either the whole world came after him or he finally actually managed to disappear. Just because he could do it didn't mean he _wanted_ to do it...

Of course, he'd never been one for introspection, either. He'd been one for _action_. The name of "David Webb", which Landy had told him was his real one, had led him places, yes, but not to where either he or she had been expecting. That he was sure of. Even worse, it hadn't led him to _what_ he was expecting, what he'd found had been too terrible to contemplate at the time, a thing which had eventually led him here. He couldn't end up like that, nor _would_ he.

The only way out was to take steps, so that was what he'd done. He just hoped that the CIA would listen, he could still hear the old mans growled advice.

"_You want the Agency to listen to you, you have to start by getting their attention and then making your demands very clear. They've been threatened by experts for decades, though, so understand this: the only thing they'll listen to is the drip-drip pain of blood on the floor, haemorrhaging in a way they can't stop. Sounds horrible and it is, but it has to be done._

_Good luck. You'll need it..._".

Time to go. The jet to LA was leaving in an hour and wouldn't wait...

/End of Chapter One. I know there's been almost no action in this part, but trust me, there's PLENTY on the way. All Reviews welcomed/.


	3. Chapter 3

For all disclaimers: See Part 1.

All Reviews welcomed.

**The Last Day**

_Los Angeles, APO Headquarters_

_One week ago_

"Jason Bourne, real name David Webb, born 1972, recruited into State Department in 93' at the age of 21 after graduation from University with a Degree in Politics, upper second. Your basic mid-level functionary not directly associated with CIA Ops, above-competent paper-pusher until 1995, when he passed the Viper Tests without knowledge of just what he'd accomplished. After that the story gets interesting, but there are a few things to cover first" said Landy, using the remote control to change the video screen picture. A report form appeared, which was covered with red stamps which denoted secrecy and security everywhere.

EYES ONLY: CONFIDENTIAL

TOP SECRET

PROJECT TREADSTONE FINAL REPORT

DIRECTOR/SIGNATORY: Ward Abbot.

Jacks eyes hardened at the name on the reports front page, unnoticed by anyone but Sloane and Chase. The screen scrolled up and a detailed report of the creation and nature of Project Treadstone began to show, but Landy didn't stop until she reached the reports conclusion concerning Jason Bourne and his impact on the Project. As the team read it, she began to speak again.

"Jason Bourne was in the first wave of Treadstone recruits in 1995, but before he was recruited a thorough background check was done on him. He had no deep personal relationships beyond his parents, despite a girlfriend existing. Politics were easy, he wanted to do what was best for America and was willing to do whatever he could, even if he had to do somewhat...questionable things.

He grew up in a city surrounded by people best described as distinctly average who never expected and never would have amounted to much, so no radical tendencies. He had no Criminal Record, no known significant enemies and had basic armed and unarmed combat training. He was in good physical condition from a regular exercise routine. All things considered and acted upon he was a perfect candidate, so he was the first. Also the best, as it turned out" said Landy, turning sharp eyes on Jack, who showed no reaction.

"After extensive training, physical and psychological tests and a battery of field exams, training ended in 1997 and he completed his first mission flawlessly. After that he quickly became Treadstone's top Agent, until he was ordered to silence a former Agency asset, Nykwana Wombosi, in 2002. For unknown reasons, he failed and instead attempted to abandon ship in the English Channel during a storm. Despite being badly wounded by Wombosi, he succeeded in jumping overboard and was later rescued by a French trawler. What followed led to the destruction of the whole Project" said Landy, gesturing towards the screen display before moving on to a later date.

"While he recovered physically, he suffered a massive unknown psychological trauma that caused him to develop complete Amnesia, causing him to forget completely even his own name. In the process of tracking down his own identity, his cover was completely compromised, which led to Treadstone Field Director Alex Conklin ordering other Treadstone Agents to silence him. They failed, which finally led to the death of Conklin himself on Ward Abbot's orders to make sure there were absolutely no trails leading back to the CIA for anyone, even Bourne, to follow" Landy went on, before Vaughn broke in.

"Hold on, are you saying what I _think_ your saying? The CIA ordered the execution of a former asset because he'd become inconvenient, then followed through by going after the Agent sent because they considered him compromised with no real proof? What is this, are we _assassins_ now?" Vaughn snapped. He ignored the stare from Sloane, he'd earned the right to ask questions long ago.

"Yes, but for one distinction. Bourne is, himself, an Assassin, a professional killer, a weapon designed and built by the CIA to make sure that nothing ever arises that cannot be dealt with. A covert option that is a necessity given the public ban on operations of this nature since 76', despite the revoking of that order in 01' officially. No one here needs reminding of just who and what is out there, so save any moral objections or issues for discussion with Director Chase. Now, if I can continue...?" replied Landy. No one else spoke.

"Thank you. In 2004, a foreign agency Assassin called Kirill tracked Bourne down in India and killed his long-time companion in a failed attack, which set Bourne on the attack against the CIA since he believed us responsible, especially when he learnt he was believed responsible for an attack in Berlin that killed a senior CIA Agent and an asset he was meeting. In clearing his name he exposed a conspiracy within the CIA, which caused the Suicide of Ward Abbot when he implicated himself while being recorded without his knowledge.

After that Bourne disappeared again, but a Task Force set up at the time by me to track him down was ordered to continue functioning despite my objections. Now, having been hounded by the CIA for five years, it seems that he's finally reached the point where he is willing and capable of doing whatever is necessary to force us to back off. As this shows" said Landy, changing the video screen view to a list of names.

It took Sydney a long moment to realise that the list of names was actually two, over forty people, dead and alive. It took her somewhat less time to take in that of all those names, only eight were listed as still being alive. Four were classified as "Still-Serving" or "Secured", though, so she couldn't tell who all eight of the survivors so far were.

"Alex Conklin, Snr.? There are two?" asked Nadia, her voice gently touched by her Spanish accent. Jack's face tightened suddenly, but his near-total lack of expression regardless meant that even Sidney and Sloane barely noticed.

"Aleksei Nikolae Konsolikov, better known as Alex Conklin, or "Saint" Alex. He was CIA, Retired before Sydney's time, let alone yours Nadia. He still helps out on occasion, but he's an old, old man now. The "young" Conklin was his Nephew and no, I wouldn't even consider asking the old man about all of this. Anything else?" asked Chase...

Y

Some time later, after the briefing had finished, Sloane quietly invited Jack to join him in his office for a private meeting. Jack had no doubt at all what the meeting would be about, nor was he surprised.

"So, Jack, have you called him yet? If I so much as suspect you still have issues with that man after not even speaking to him for over twenty-five years I will be less than impressed" said Sloane, settling back comfortably into his Directors chair.

"Not yet. More to the point, suggesting that we _need_ his help to complete this mission is both exaggeration and absurd in my professional opinion. Between the talents, skills and experiences of everyone in APO, combined with the significant resources at our disposal, we are more than capable of dealing with any eventuality ourselves. Conklin should be our _last_ resort, not our first" stated Jack firmly, in a cool tone of voice that betrayed absolutely nothing about what thoughts were going through his head, any more than his face and eyes did.

Sloane just stared at him for several long moments, then slowly nodded an assent. "Very well, Jack, just think about my suggestion. Also, hope we don't regret this" said Sloane, his voice just as cool as Jack's...

_Langley, Virginia, CIA Headquarters, six days ago_

"...Yes, I understand, sir...no, I don't honestly think its necessary, but if you have sufficient concerns to...Sir, with all due respect what you are proposing will cause a lot more than a bureaucratic headache and a few issues with State...No, sir, I'm not questioning your decision. I just want you to be sure you've thought this through before we actually do it...Yes, sir, I'll put my best people on it...I know, sir, but for this even special measures might not be enough. Thank you sir, goodbye" said Director Chase, before almost slamming down her telephone in a rare display of real temper.

No matter what their background or experience, very, very few Politicians or desk pushers ever had any business in issuing orders or making suggestions to Agencies like the CIA in her opinion. That McAllister had truly exceptional qualifications barely eased her developing headache at all.

Damn Jason Bourne and whatever the hell he was up to, damn him straight to Hell. She was under enough pressure on a day-to-day basis with this job and her life. She needed figures as senior as Special Advisors to the White House operating from under the intelligence blanket of the NSA, giving her orders which came down from the Oversight Committee for the whole Agency if she wanted to argue, like she needed the plague or a new major Terrorist attack. She could tell he'd been talking to someone in the know, though, he'd sounded _far_ too sure of himself and his orders. Conklin, if her instincts were good, which made everything so much better... The old man just couldn't keep his nose clean, no matter what.

Sighing, she picked up her telephone. She had some calls to make, several in fact. Landy and Sloane were not going to be happy about this...

_APO Headquarters_

"Let me see if I have this clear: because of the interference of some high-order political animal who has the ear of the White House were now under orders to form what effectively amounts to a multinational Task Force, dedicated to bringing in a single man, a rogue CIA Agent created, trained and armed by the US Government. Were supposed to do this covertly, continue to function completely below the radar and share command of an on-going mission with NSA, FBI and MI6 agents since MI6 has managed to gather intelligence we can't and already has an Agent in play. Have I missed anything?" asked Jack, staring at Sloane in a way which suggested he expected to see a hole between Sloane's eyes running right through to the back.

"No. The FBI are assigned the domestic front, the NSA has number-crunching facilities and a large pool of Agents we can draw on if we need numbers, MI6 has an exceptional advantage since their Agent has already made contact with Bourne previously and survived. We ourselves handle the groundwork and bring Bourne down when it comes to that, which is something not even Chase could change my mind about. I don't care what anyone says, Jack, this is a CIA problem and we'll be the ones to clean it up" said Sloane, tapping at a key on his monitor before glancing back at Jack. "Any comments?" he asked.

"Stupidity at best, insanity at worst, that we have to follow orders in this case _is_ the worst. You and I both have attempted this before. Except for brief cooperation missions with small numbers and tight organisation such missions inevitably disintegrate in time. We can do it, but not for long, so we'll have to work fast and strike hard. However...I assume mission profile was given to Chase by McAllister?" asked Jack. Sloane nodded, his eyes narrowing as he took in Jack's face.

"I see. Conklin..." hissed Jack, anger briefly filling his voice...

_Downtown LA_

Sydney threw cold water in her face from the sink, tossed her damp long hair back behind her head and glanced in the mirror. Trickles of water still ran down her face and neck, making her T-shirt damp even while making her face and eyes shine. Given her after-hours quick run to shake out the cobwebs and wake up her muscles after a very long, very busy day at the office, she should have looked and felt dog-tired. Instead, she looked like some "hot babe" ready to "rock and roll", as some of her former colleagues had thought they'd called her behind her back, with a delicious dark energy rolling around inside her as a feral grin shaped her mouth.

After the kind of madness they'd gone through with the sheer amount of organisation, preparation and communication required to just begin to set up the kind of Task Force they were organising-her father hadn't been off the phone for more than five minutes in the past eighteen hours, she was sure-they'd all needed a break. With a few hours left to sleep or play, they'd chosen to do both. Surprisingly enough, though, it had been Nadia who had suggested the perfect place to unwind in. Apparently, her little Sister liked to get to know the clubs and bars where she lived in case of a need for a nightcap, coffee or simply somewhere to go at any given time. In the process of looking around, she'd found one place in particular...

It was called the "_Dionysus_" and was a full-on proper nightclub, complete with huge bar, massive dance floor, big restaurant area, kitchen for food, deafening music of every description and flashing multicoloured lights that lit up pole dancers, men and women, scattered everywhere around the dance floor. The walls were high and painted dark, the ceiling was a melee of colour that perfectly suited the sultry mood of the place caused by great heat and packed humanity. The floor was carpeted for food but smooth hard board for dancing.

She knew about it, of course, but she'd never been inside, partially because, even with Danny, this had never really been that kind of place for her. Now, though? After loosing two years of her life, meeting her "dead" mother after twenty years and loosing her again to her fathers gun and a cold grave, gaining a Sister and having to discover for herself who she was all over again, passing through the fires of Hell on the way, she'd come to realise one very important thing: live for today, anything could and would happen tomorrow.

With Vaughn along with her, that made this place _perfect_ for what she needed, even "super-spies" needed to simply unwind, shut down and relax-if not completely, of course-for a while... She needed to drink more. Having to stop to revive herself after only two hours dancing was close to humiliation for her...

Feeling refreshed, she stepped back out into the nightclub-and was almost bowled over by Weiss, sprinting past into the men's with his hands over his mouth, gagging and choking, Vaughn in hot pursuit right behind him wearing a smirk and his version of the easy clothes they'd all settled on. She nearly rolled her eyes as she smiled at Vaughn, seemed she wasn't the only one with problems...

Y

About a minute earlier, Nadia had nearly jumped backwards in shock as Weiss had suddenly started heaving while they'd been slow dancing in one another's arms. Thankfully he'd spun and run off fast in the direction the apparently tired Sidney had previously a second later, followed by a surprised Vaughn who had tossed a hurried "Sorry!" over his shoulder before disappearing into the mass of humanity at a run.

That had left Nadia feeling lonely on the dance floor all of a sudden-not that she was lacking for potential partners, male and female, who would all likely be rougher than Weiss, which she actually preferred-when a pair of strong hands came to rest on her hips, a solid chest pressing against her back. She breathed in sharply, forced herself not to react as her training dictated, slowly turned her head and body around-to find herself face-to-face with a man in his mid thirties she didn't know.

Taller than her, only a little under six feet, gently handsome despite a scar across his left cheek with sky-blue eyes and jet-black hair, just the touch of his body against hers let her know that his body was compact, utterly solid, hard-muscled and easily graceful in a way she'd rarely seen or sensed. She ran her fingertips over his chest up to his shoulders, brushing against forged physical development that only years of practise and training ever developed beneath his grey T-shirt, while his tight blue jeans let her eyes tell he wasn't lacking down there either.

She should have been nervous, but all she felt or thought about was the delicious sense, almost a scent, of danger that enveloped this man like a cape and a mask, hiding the truth in a way that only made him more attractive to her. She wasn't an adrenaline junkie, but no one succeeded in her profession without a healthy sense of risk and a _need_ to live life on the edge more often than not. Did that give her a soft spot for dangerous men? Yes. Did that give her a blind spot? Yes, but she had her means and ways. Did she care? Right now, no. Short of extreme physical threat right this second, she _needed_ this.

He smiled, not an easy expression but an honest one.

"May I have this dance?" he asked, his accent pure New Yorker.

Y

"Nadia? Where are you, sis-? OH..." muttered Sydney, pushing her way through the crowd in search of her sister, only to abruptly catch sight of the reason she hadn't found her yet. Sydney's eyebrows shot up at the sight. Nadia was dancing with a man she'd never seen before, if one could call _that_ dancing.

Well, it wasn't as if she hadn't known Nadia had a wild side...

Nadia's smooth hair was down and loose, falling with silky softness about her shoulders and face halfway down her back. She was wearing an off the shoulder black T-shirt which exposed enough of her upper arms, shoulders and a hint of cleavage to catch the eye of anyone, while a form-fitting dress of the same colour swirled around her legs. The dark clothes brought out her sultry Spanish beauty by acting against her natural colouring while fake-gold wristlets and earrings gleamed in the light, ruby-red lips wide open and laughing to expose perfect small white teeth.

She looked a picture of health and youthful beauty, she also looked very happy. She also, right now, looked...interesting, as the man she was dancing with moved against her hard and fast, even as they span around one another, shifted, turned, touched, moved, even caressed as she watched Nadia's fingertips gently trace his face, his fingers tracing her face and throat as she leaned into his touch. She'd never seen _that_ expression on her sister's face before, a combination of arousal and smoky lust, as though she'd come across someone or something she wanted _bad_. More to the point, she'd never seen anything resembling a look like that on Nadia's face when she'd been with Weiss, no matter how close they'd seemed or been.

Nadia turned her back on the man, stepped hard back into his embrace and let him trail kisses down her throat as his arms wrapped around her chest just below her breasts. She looked as though she wouldn't have minded if the man had reached a little higher. There was no mistaking the look in her eyes, this was a seduction now as far as she was concerned. Apparently, Weiss had just been superseded by a superior model...

Nadia caught her eye, indicated a place off to the side and a time with her eyes and fingers, then rolled around in the mans arms. So close they were practically breathing each other, it was almost impossible for them not to kiss, a problem Nadia solved by leaning into the man and kissing him full on the lips. It was quite obvious he enjoyed it the way he responded, just like it was obvious he was going to enjoy Nadia herself the way they were leaning into each other.

Thinking about the pain even a one-night stand was going to cause Weiss if Nadia went that far, even if Nadia was her sister, Sidney couldn't quite decide what to do. She stood and watched them as they slowly moved off into the crowd, before she felt rather than heard a familiar presence behind her and glanced around to see Vaughn approaching. She smiled, turned and stepped straight into his arms, kissing him passionately full on the lips. Her sister was an adult, she should just let her have her fun and leave it all for a quiet word later...

Vaughn was apparently startled by the sudden kiss, but recovered magnificently and eagerly returned the passion and the pleasure. They broke off after a long breath, then couldn't stop smirking at each other.

"Nice" remarked Vaughn, grinning, "hope there's more to come later? Good. Just to say we need to go, by the way and sorry to say. I think Weiss ate something that disagreed with him in a painful way, he hasn't stopped throwing up for five minutes. Where's Nadia, anyway?" he added, looking around and not spotting her.

"Preoccupied, no lack of offers for her. Don't worry, you take your car and Weiss back. I'll take mine and Nadia. See you in a few minutes" said Sydney. Vaughn glanced at her for a moment, then shrugged, nodded and headed back towards Weiss and the door. Sydney waited the time asked, then moved to where Nadia had indicated. Nadia arrived moments later, hair slightly mussed, breathing heavily, clothes rumpled. Sydney's eyebrows shot up and what she thought must have been evident on her face from the slightly embarrassed look Nadia developed.

"No, no, I don't do _that_ in the backrooms of seedy nightclubs, Syd. It was just...interesting, lets leave that there..." said Nadia, trying and failing to stop an expression of sultry pleasure lighting up her face and eyes.

Sidney only barely managed to prevent her jaw from dropping at this revelation. She knew her sister better than to ask more. Nadia was saying that she'd been alone with the man and not told him he had to keep his hands to himself, or his lips by the look of her. More to the point, she looked like she'd enjoyed every minute of it. It had been a long, long time since she'd honestly been that young and flirtatious, Sidney couldn't help but think...

_Democratic Republic of Congo_

The man was a slim six feet two tall, thirteen and a half stone of compact, solid muscle wrapped around fine bone. Electric blue eyes almost burned in a sharply handsome face, while darkly auburn hair fell to his shoulders, sideburns running down his face to a small moustache and chin beard, all neatly trimmed if slick with sweat. Lean, harder than stone and stronger than forged steel, a man who was mesmerising to women and disturbing to men, his name, for purposes such as this, was simply Cole. He didn't have another, to the knowledge of everyone he knew. Never had.

As he walked through the still-smouldering remains of the wood huts in the forest village, down dirt paths covered with scattered ashes, shell casings and spatters of blood, he glanced up at the dull sky and noted the black clouds gathering deeper and denser all the time. Thunderstorm on the way, he surmised, big one. Very big. They'd have to hurry.

Khaki trousers and climbing boots covered his legs and feet, while a dull green combat vest stained with sweat, blood and fear covered his chest. Jet-black combat webbing strung over his chest held ammunition, explosives, gear, food and drink while a holster hung diagonally across his back, left shoulder to right hip, held a Combat Shotgun. On his left hip a Magnum pistol was holstered, while on his right a machete was sheathed. A hand-held modified M-60 machine gun was slung over his shoulder, a 45. Glock being holstered at the base of his spine.

He was carrying so much in the way of arms and ammunition most people would have been unable to stand up, let alone move, but he strode through long grass, forests, mud, swamps, rocks and gunfights as though he wanted more and could go on forever. Born in the Ukraine thirty-seven years ago, no-one knew what he'd done or who he'd known before his eighteenth birthday, when he'd firebombed a US Special Forces squad in Kuwait, wiping out a whole Delta team of sixteen men who had simply melted, just to make a point and sent the film to potential employers. After that he'd gotten even more focused on the job and had, at one point or another, worked for every major Terrorist group on the planet.

Every Intelligence agency anyone knew wanted to talk to him, then kill him, slowly. Most countries wanted him for everything from Crimes against Humanity on down to Blackmail. Not one of them had any pictures or positive ID's to go on, though, even people who'd met him could never remember him somehow. They just said "Blue eyes, he had blue eyes..."

In fact, only four people in the world could ever have told anyone who he was. Only _one_ of those meant enough to him to make sure he never ensured, the only way he could, they didn't talk. Even though another came close...

He reached the centre of the village, where a huge bonfire was raging, twenty feet across and almost ten feet high. The soldiers he'd come here with were working to remove all traces of human life by burning anything personal to anyone except buildings, from children's toys to wooden cutlery. A huge mound of fresh deep brown earth in the forest, recently disturbed, told where the bodies had all gone. There were no survivors.

Even the birds, bugs and other wildlife of the forest wouldn't come anywhere near this place, a sense of revulsion for a crime against the natural order of things driving them far away. He preferred it, the sounds tended to irritate him somewhat in any case. Nature might be beautiful, but he was a city man at heart.

The awful stink of every kind of fabric, wood and material gathered being burnt together wafted across his face and meant nothing to him. He'd been in Rwanda in 94' during the killings, he'd seen people buried and burnt alive, tortured, maimed, mutilated and killed in ways which couldn't be described using sanity and sense. He'd stared into the Abyss, then joined in. Killing was nothing, life was cheap or he wouldn't exist.

A pebble bounced off his shoulder all of a sudden, he didn't react at all asides from turning around and walking towards where it had come from. Nobody threw things at him or annoyed him at all, it just didn't happen. Everyone knew better, those who didn't were dead. That meant one thing: _she_ was here.

Huge, massively tall and broad trees with huge green leaves overhung most of the village, but the sun still reached almost every part of it. Not where he was going, which didn't surprise him at all. He stepped behind the house and saw her-then stopped, just to drink in the view, like he always did.

_Talia_. The Goddess, darkly devastating, impossibly striking, all feral grace and focused power, with a body which took the breath away and a beauty to kill for. The one woman he'd ever wanted he couldn't have. Her green-black camouflage leggings, sleeveless T-shirt and dirty brown boots only served to emphasise that to him. How could anyone look so perfect in so terrible a place? Of all people, though, he knew his limits. She would have eaten him alive, left him broken and dead, but he was of more use alive. So he lived to serve...

"Cole, I need you" Talia said. Four words, simple ones, his name even, but they meant so much from her. He'd never been one to say much, though, so he just smiled and nodded. Without another word she turned and strode off into the jungle, to pass through the line of guards without a whisper, he knew. He simply followed.

_Los Angeles_

He glanced through the photographs again in his little apartment in the middle of nowhere, central LA, shook his head and felt the woman's lips on his again, her firm body under his hands... Women, they'd be the death of him yet. It wasn't that he could never resist a pretty face, he had, plenty of times, it was that the simple and real need for plain human companionship was one thing Treadstone had never managed to rip out of him-he thought, at least. He'd considered Sydney Bristow, but her younger and less experienced sister had seemed a safer bet. What he hadn't counted on was that she'd be _so_ interested, he'd almost had to forcibly prise her off. Not that he'd have been complaining, under other circumstances.

He stared at the first in the lamplight, committing the face to memory. Sydney Bristow, daughter of senior CIA Agent Jack Bristow. A woman who'd spent seven years living a lie, then two years helping to destroy the lie as a Double Agent for the CIA inside SD-6, part of the Alliance. Since then, she'd "died" and disappeared for two years to parts and places unknown-come to think of it, _he_ had a pretty good idea what had happened to her and where-come back from the dead to the CIA and spent over a year back in their employ now, chasing Rambaldi to the ends and edges of the Earth for most of it. First on the watch list, with her experience she'd spot him in a second given a good look.

For a 500 year dead inventor and philosopher who could apparently predict the future, Bourne couldn't help but think that Rambaldi had dragged down an awful lot of very talented people with his insanity. After all, for anyone who looked around them there was plenty to worry about in the real world...

Picture two, Michael Vaughn. Sydney Bristow's Handler once she discovered the truth about SD-6, experienced and skilled CIA Agent with the Agency, an eleven-year field veteran with an almost spotless record. A man to be watched because he'd spot any detail out of place, even if he didn't have Sydney's eye for a lie.

Picture three, Nadia Santos. Street brat out of Argentina, former petty thief and Agent of Argentinean Intelligence, now recruited by the CIA. An unusual collection of skills tempered by training and experience in their shadow world. The wild card, she would spot things others wouldn't and never quite do what you expected. Despite her sister's experience and knowledge, she was really the more dangerous one.

Picture number four, Eric Weiss. Fat but not slow, steady but not brilliant, a talented Agent who needed to learn his limits. Mainly of worth as muscle, in Bourne's opinion.

Marcus Dixon was easy, despite his ruthless nature and solid, utterly professional approach to the job. A family man, he'd do anything at all to protect his family, especially after his Wife's assassination.

The same was true of the one called Marshall, despite his brilliance in technological matters.

As for Arvin Sloane and Jack Bristow, he had plans. Arvin was a danger, Jack was a threat, both had to be neutralised, one killed. He knew just what to do...

/End of Chapter 2. All Reviews welcomed/.


	4. Chapter 4

For all disclaimers: See Part One.

All Reviews welcomed.

**The Last Day**

_LA, 2007, five days ago_

"No!" said Sydney, waving her hands around like she was directing traffic to fend Vaughn's offer off. She just wasn't going to do it...

"I'm telling you, its good stuff" said Vaughn, taking a swig of the "special" Grapefruit juice drink from the circular bottle even as she watched, downing the purple liquid with every sign of enjoyment. She knew him too well for him to fake it, he really was enjoying it, but that purple sludge looked _disgusting_.

"I'm sure it is, if you like your taste buds that way. Vaughn, that's not a drink, that's the squeezed grapefruit juice from Hell and I am not trying it" she said, firmly, putting her most severe expression on her face. Vaughn just smirked, he knew her too well not to see straight through her protests as well. She didn't want to try it, that didn't mean she wouldn't if he pressed hard enough. Given the playful mood he was in, _they_ were in, he was clearly inclined to try, too. Wonderful-maybe she could whisper something really distracting in his ear? A variety of colourful suggestions floated through her mind...

She forced herself to look away from his mesmerising green gaze, to look at anything else. The battered, worn metal walls of the subway train they were in, the darkness momentarily lit every few seconds outside the windows by tunnel lamps, the few other people in the carriage...why did something feel a little off?

Sounds came to her ears, the clanking of tracks as train wheels thumped over them, the whisper of wind whipping past as the train sped on, the easy, comforting rumble of Vaughn's voice as he spoke again, a low murmur of conversation coming from some of the others in the carriage. That wasn't everything, though, she could-_sense_ something in the background, something big and all kinds of wrong, a sound that just didn't belong she couldn't consciously pin down but knew anyway.

First rule of life as a Spy: _there is no such thing as coincidence_. If something is unlikely, expect it. If it's impossible, imagine it. If there is no way at all, ever, that it could happen, then someone's already done it somewhere and you just don't know about it. If you can't do it, someone else will. Don't ever argue with possibility, you'll loose.

Something was _really_ wrong here, something that was setting off the silent alarm in her mind and raising the short hairs on the back of her neck as her instincts kicked in like the end of the world was coming. There was nothing to see, nothing to hear, but she could just _tell_ that there was something "off" here in a way she couldn't consciously explain. She'd seen her father demonstrate the same talent, walk into a room with no one in and be back outside a second before the ambush was launched, a gift you couldn't explain. It was a skill that you either had or didn't, that meant the difference between life and death in many cases. Everyone at APO but Marshall had it, but none of them had been "trained" by her father as a child...

Vaughn was abruptly silent, glancing around with a frown as though he'd noticed something he didn't like, a bad smell, a sudden pain. He'd picked up on it too...

_Shit_.

They were dressed in their usual sharp business suits, en route to APO headquarters, and were only carrying standard weapons and a spare clip with one already in the weapon each. Vaughn carried a Backup weapon under his left armpit, a miniaturised six-shot Magnum pistol she knew he had no spare ammo for right now. She carried two backups, a Walther PPK in an ankle holster and a six-inch knife in a hidden sheath on her left forearm under her shirt. She had no more spare ammunition either. If whoever was after them was here in numbers, they were in real trouble...

Everyone was a suspect, even the doddering old man who could have been disguised, the single mother rocking her child to sleep in her arms, the teenager with the punk hairstyle listening to far too loud music, everyone. Why were people moving that way, towards or away from doors and windows? Vaughn's hand slipped towards his pistol by the centimetre as he moved so slowly and carefully-

Sydney's Mobile rang suddenly, almost making her think there was a bomb as she focused on staying calm and assessing the situation. She whipped it out and glanced at the display-_Toni_? Toni who? The name didn't mean anything immediately and her mobile wasn't rigged with explosives, so she answered it quick.

"Hello?" she asked, eyes and head always moving, scanning the vicinity and everything in it, absorbing every detail like a Supercomputer and running every scenario and possibility she could think of along with possible counters and strategies to respond through her mind. She sometimes really did appreciate just why her father, the most brilliant tactician and organiser she'd ever met, had survived and succeeded as long as he had.

"_Girlfriend, I don't mix business and pleasure, but when my life's on the line I get on it real quick. I gotta say this fast or I'll be traced. Wherever you are, get out and into a safe place right this second, CIA or better, no arguments or you die. Run down a group called the Evolution Cadre and dig them up, you'd be surprised why-shit, gotta go, REALLY gotta go!_" said a woman's musical voice with a lilting and sensual ease of speech, an American accent. That brought it all back.

"Toni CUMMINGS?! Wait-what the Hell-?!" Sydney began, but the phone had gone dead-almost. Sydney's sharp ears caught a distinct suggestion of gunfire in the dying hiss of the connection…

"Sydney-SYDNEY!" Vaughn suddenly shouted, leaping to his feet as he threw his drink to the floor and pulled his pistol. She looked around sharply-three of the men in the carriage, including the "old man", were on their feet-the "old man" was holding a Combat Shotgun, one of the younger men was holding a Glock .45, the last a STEYR semi-automatic.

She barely had time to scream "NO-!" before they started shooting. There were innocent people in the carriage with them…

Y

Nadia and Weiss were joking around in APO headquarters to relieve the pressure of their on-going organisational nightmare, which didn't seem to be getting any simpler no matter how hard they worked. Sloane was in his office, working at his computer while waiting for Sydney and Vaughn to arrive so he could begin the briefing, smiling slightly at his daughter where no one could see. Marshal was, as ever, occupied with technological problems and issues. Jack was in his office tapping away at his computer with both hands while talking on a hands-free headset-but he was the first to react when the sudden continuous "Beep" started sounding from the APO system.

That alarm was only ever sounded if an APO Agent hit the emergency code on their Pager and transmitted directly to APO, even then it was a last resort given the organisations very nature. For it to sound so unexpectedly, with only Sydney and Vaughn not present yet in LA...

Jack was off the phone in a second. Seconds later he knew who and where as his fingers shot danced across the computer keys. Moments after that he had accessed APO's armoury and was strapping on a bullet proof vest while collecting extra ammunition and grenades, just in case. He was heading for Marshall's office almost as quickly as Sloane, who, as APO's Director, had immediately moved to gather information to feed the field team once they were sent out. Nadia and Weiss were right behind him, Dixon deciding to pick up a heavier weapon in a move which delayed him. Marshall was already hacking the security camera feeds as they all arrived with breathless speed and skill. He always got like this when Sydney was in trouble, hot, bothered and excitable, even though he knew he shouldn't. Hey, after all, people like Sydney were too much larger than life to get killed by some bizarre sneak attack, right? The day she died the whole world would notice. Not that he wouldn't miss Vaughn, of course, but...

"Okay, okay...here we go, looks like the driver hit the Emergency Stop, they stopped just short of the station...can't get an interior visual, here we go-oh, man-!" muttered Marshall as a visual of the scene, as much as he could get, came up in grey-white grainy visuals. It didn't disguise the intense flashes of white light inside the stopped grey-black train, not the brief star falls of glittering shards as windows were blasted out. People, young and old, male and female, had forced the doors and were running up the track to the station, from where they were running on straight up to the street. The entire station was crowded with frantic people literally fighting their way up and out, some of them carrying dark stains on clothes and skin.

Jack's sharp intake of breath told him everything he needed to know. He didn't speak Spanish, but he got the gist of what Nadia was saying as she started muttering under her breath. She was swearing a blue streak while very nearly praying-which she never did-that her sister was all right. Dixon suddenly arrived, carrying an M-16 and wearing a Flak jacket. Marshall couldn't help but smile, the older Agent really did know the kind of situations Sydney tended to get into too well.

"It's a full scale attack in the LA subway on our Agents, Jack. Unbelievable... All right, there's no time for discussion. Jack, your command, Dixon, your on point. Nadia, Weiss, covering fire and backup. I'll coordinate from here. You know where. GO!" snapped out Sloane.

Jack was running for the exit before Sloane finished speaking, Nadia and Dixon right behind him, Weiss a moment slower to respond. Once outside, they started a steady fast run up the tunnel, taking care to avoid the Third Rail.

Y

The man with the Combat shotgun fired first, missing as Vaughn threw himself flat on the floor before returning fire with a three-shot burst. All three shots took the shotgun man in the head and catapulted him over backwards, instantly fatal.

The man with the Glock .45 aimed at Sydney but she fired first, hitting his shoulder and forcing him to shoot a hole in the roof, his weapon swinging high and wild. She steadied her aim and put two in his heart before he could recover, slamming him back into the wall where he collapsed, a great smear of blood running down the metal from his back. A wasp-sting cut her left forearm a second before she rotated back-before Vaughn kicked her legs from under her and nearly broke her neck in a heavy landing, saving her life in the process as bullets creased her scalp, parting her hair.

"MOVE!" he snapped, grabbing her and rolling the two of them into cover behind metal poles and cushion seats set around metal supports as bullets struck sparks all around them. He made to rise, when suddenly the trains brakes screamed like pain itself being tortured, glass shards raining down and around them as bursts of gunfire shattered glass windows. The glass made small cuts in the skin but didn't do more damage, unlike the bullets would. The twisting, grinding, shuddering shift of metal pinned against metal abruptly ebbed as the brakes bit in, which was both good and bad, since it meant that they could now get off the train as well as shoot from a steady base. On the down side, so could their surviving opponent...

He breathed in, leapt to his feet and moved to shoot-blood exploded out of his right shoulder, going the wrong way, almost toppling him with a wave of pain. He'd been shot, from behind...

Y

Three men came from in front, three from behind, this time all of them were carrying heavy guns, from shotguns to fully automatics. Sydney saw them first, but had no time to shout a warning before the first saw Vaughn leap to his feet and shot him in the shoulder. She didn't dare simply pop up and return fire against that kind of arsenal, so she faked it and fired wildly into the air, causing all of the shooters to dive for cover as they tried to identify the target.

They did it smooth and fast, easily, rolling back to their feet in protected positions with sharp eyes already searching out their next move and target even as Vaughn collapsed back into cover, Sydney effectively dragging him half under the seat in a desperate attempt at protection. Great, professionals, she needed this like she needed a ticking Nuke strapped to her chest with Vaughn wounded, if not incapacitated. She risked a quick glance and almost got her head taken off, a shotgun blast denting the wall next to her head. Even better, they were moving in, working as a team to close her and Vaughn down...

She caught a glimpse of a misplaced ankle and shot it out, one of the men collapsing with an awful scream she barely noticed. Everyone not armed or injured was cowering behind their sets or simply curled up on the floor, praying. No one in this carriage dared do anything else, in case the shooters took exception to them and killed them, too. She couldn't blame them...

Abruptly, all of the shooters opened fire at once at some prearranged signal. Hot lead shrieked and whined in all directions, shotgun pellets shredded steel and scratched flesh, a deafening roar suddenly filled the air even as she squeezed Vaughn's hand-then it stopped, leaving her thinking she was dead for long, long moments, before she heard the man's voice.

He shouted a demand in German that almost made her go into shock, then repeated it in English, apparently just in case. The train seemed to shake again abruptly, but she was almost too distracted to notice.

"JULIA! JULIA THORNE! YOU CANNOT HIDE FROM US FOREVER! COME OUT, TELL US THE TRUTH AND LIVE, IN PAIN!" shouted one of the men, his accent heavy German, voice one she didn't recognise.

…Julia Thorne…?

Who _were_ these people? More importantly, just what the Hell was happening here?!

…_Julia Thorne_…?!

"Sydney, we stay here we die and there is _no_ way were giving these bastards anything if they want you-" began Vaughn, but he was cut off by a sudden shriek. A middle-aged woman had been wrenched up off of the floor, a gun put to the back of her head. Before either of the horrified Agents could do anything, the man pulled the trigger of his shotgun and the woman's head almost came off, blood and gore exploding everywhere.

"GOD! YOU-!" shouted Sydney, fighting the injured Vaughn to force her way to her feet and start shooting. She was quicker and more agile, but Vaughn had weight and strength, which mattered more in this situation. He had her pinned, a fact she hated at the time, but would later be glad for. To say a shotgun blast to the chest would have done her no good was akin to saying she could have lived happily ever after without her lungs. Whether they wanted her alive or not, crippling or mutilation couldn't be out of the realm of possibility if they were really serious here. Worse, after THAT...well, she no longer had any doubt they were _very_ serious.

"SYDNEY! Think, dammit! We just pop up and start shooting, we DIE! GET IT?! THINK! If anyone can get us out of this mess, its you!" bit out Vaughn, blood streaming down his arm from his wounded shoulder as his struggle with her aggravated his injury. She knew he was right, but she also couldn't simply ignore the fact the men after them would simply kill everyone in here if they had to to get her...

"In here..." were words that should have meant something to her before now. The train was stopped, there were no more than six civilians in here with them. If they got outside and away, the attackers would have to follow them and leave any hostages behind. If she and Vaughn could fight a miniature guerrilla war against these bastards in the tunnels of the underground, or even across stations, she knew they could win. How long could it be until the APO team arrived as backup given the SOS she'd already sent after all?

"Vaughn, up and under" she whispered into his ear, making him glance at her-before he smiled suddenly.

"Five, four, three, two..." counted down the speaker in English, sounding almost bored. Sydney rolled to her feet, Vaughn at her back, then they both moved to a crouch fast and started shooting.

Rapid automatic gunfire echoed as fast single gunshots cracked, followed by the heavy boom of a shotgun. Vaughn fired hard and fast with a marksman's accuracy at one target with a shotgun, killing the man with a lucky shot which ripped right through his cover and heart before a bullet slashed open his own left cheek. He rotated left and right fast, emptying his magazine with an awful CLICK of trigger on empty chamber as he forced down the other two at his end.

Sydney, easily the better shot, killed one and crippled a seconds left arm by blasting out his elbow before a ricochet slammed into her chest right under her ribs on the right. She knew if it had been a direct impact she'd have been on the floor with internal injuries if she was still alive, probably bleeding to death on the inside, but that hardly meant it didn't hurt like being whipped with red-hot barbed wire as the bullet scorched and tore skin, flesh and muscle. She fell to one knee, unable to stand for a long moment despite her high pain tolerance, forcing aside the intense discomfort, agony and shock. She'd been shot before, you expected to be in gunfights, this wasn't going to kill her...

A crack of gunfire, heavy single-shot pistol, sounded from far ahead of them in the train-then the train started moving again, slowly, but gathering speed fast. Vaughn, on his feet ready to jump out of the window, was caught off-guard and fell. He twisted as he rolled right out of the shattered window, caught the frame with the fingers of one hand somehow, but it still had shards of glass left in it. He screamed as his fingers were cut deep-then had to let go, thick red blood staining glass and steel. She lost sight of him, but didn't hear the impact sounds she would have expected if he'd hit concrete or steel hard and fast.

She wrenched her body upright, fighting through the pain, emptied her pistol in rapid fire in both directions-then charged the rear door. A man leapt out to meet her with a shotgun held like a club, but she caught his swing with both hands and used his momentum to draw him in so close that she broke his nose and nearly fractured his skull with a vicious head butt that knocked him unconscious. A second man came out of nowhere, but she launched a brutal back kick before he could attack and a broken rib sent him crashing over backwards.

Wrenching open the exit door she dived through headfirst, holding an open position no longer feasible without Vaughn to watch her back against numerically superior opponents with superior positions and firepower. The carriage she hit was empty, while also being the last of three, so she rolled over, ejected her empty magazine, slapped in her spare clip and shot out the lights. A staccato burst of automatic gunfire echoed seconds later, bullets striking up sparks on the floor, but she'd already rolled aside.

Ten men in the main carriage, she and Vaughn had killed four and wounded two, at least one of whom could no longer walk with a shot-up leg while the other would be reduced to weapons held in one hand. Another man had to have been in the engine with the driver, the man who re-started the train, so she had five heavily armed professionals after her and two wounded men, one of who was still, presumerably, mobile. No way of telling on the man with one leg.

She'd had worse odds, even wounded, but, trapped on a moving train in the LA tube network, in a shoot-out with heavily armed numerically superior enemies of unknown background and resources, who apparently wanted her alive but might only need her with a heartbeat... She'd rarely been in more bizarre locations for a fight of this nature. Worst of all, there were still hostages aboard who would become victims if she stalled or attempted almost anything.

Well, she was supposed to among the best of the best, a "super-agent" who was a certified genius and experienced field operative, a brilliant planner and above-expert fighter armed or unarmed. She was Jack Bristow's daughter, a man who'd done what he had to for thirty-five years in service of his country and proven so good at it that he'd out-lasted several Presidents, countless policy changes and an infinite number of enemies who'd wanted him dead. He'd survive anything because he'd be damned if he'd go down without all involved knowing they had been in a fight, which meant he always won since he fought harder and better than anyone else she knew when everything went _really_ wrong. Loss was never an option, nor was surrender. Therefore, these things weren't options to her either. Her father was really her example in the Agency, not that she'd ever tell him that.

More to the point, she now had a young sister there was NO way she was going to disappoint. With reasons like that to succeed and survive, what she had to do was _think_. There was a way out of this, to survive and succeed, to beat all the odds, again. All she needed was time...

A clink sounded in about the middle of the carriage, as though something metallic had landed on the metal floor. She was on her feet and charging for a window in a second, shooting out the glass as she ran. She'd heard that kind of sound too many times not to know what it was.

Grenade.

Y

Dixon was leading the APO team up the tunnel towards the immobilised train, working out a quick plan to dodge any stray civilians still around, when he heard the sudden roar of its engines, its lights flashing a second before it began to move again. Marshall came on-com moments later, even as Jack loudly cursed.

"_Someone deactivated the Emergency Brakes, its back at full throttle and on its way, no way to stop it until it hits an intersection and internals are locked out, there's nothing to Hack. You guys gotta get out of there!_" came Marshall's voice, the words almost jumbled together he was speaking so fast. In the circumstances, Dixon didn't blame him. There was no passing-point anywhere nearby big enough for the five of them to get in, nowhere to dodge or run, nowhere at all to go except the platform.

"Copy that, evacuating tunnel now. Advise on further Intel?" replied Jack, pounding towards the platform as the train got closer and closer.

"_Fighting has moved to the last carriage, but I think someone fell off the train from the middle carriage when it restarted, not a good enough capture to tell who. That was Sydney and Vaughn's position, though..._" said Marshall, obviously not willing to say anything else that may have been going through his mind. Dixon was silently glad he didn't, he'd lost enough friends to the job a long time ago, let alone loved ones...

The platform was essentially deserted, with only a few civilians still about, crying, screaming or apparently catatonic with fear. It helped, even though the few mobile one's screamed even louder at the sight of an armed group running onto the platform and jumped behind anything solid available, no matter how inappropriate, including other people. Sloane's voice suddenly cut in as they paused to consider strategies, Jack being the one who had to order any attempt to board the moving train, his mind clearly working fast behind sharp eyes.

"_Be advised Police, EMT units and Fire Service are all en-route to your position as we speak. We have chatter on networks here showing people calling this in as a Terrorist attack and Emergency Service personnel responding are being ordered to treat it as such. ETA of SWAT is ten minutes, they're under orders to drop anything moving that looks suspicious if it refuses an Order to surrender. Nearest Police are two minutes away. Needless to say, you need to evacuate the station concourse and the area entirely NOW_" said Sloane, placing particular emphasis on the last word.

He finished speaking precisely five seconds before a concussion grenade went off in the third carriage, blasting windows out and rending steel like a gigantic can opener had been taken to the whole structure. The force of the blast almost shook the carriage completely off of the rails and knocked off their feet every member of the APO team, bar one, even as they ducked and dived to avoid lethal glass and metal shards being flung like Shuriken and fired like bullets in all directions. The one person left standing was a half-deaf Nadia, shielded by the larger Weiss through sheer coincidence, his propelled collapse catapulting him clear of her even as he was stunned by the awful impact.

Thanks to this, she dimly perceived a shadowed form clinging to the side of the rear of the train, desperately holding onto an extended strut set out from the roof by one hand. She got a glimpse of the figures torn clothes, bloody face and stubbornly determined expression despite obvious pain and injury-she knew then what she had to do.

_Sydney_. Her sister, trapped like a rat in a trap aboard an out-of-control speeding death trap fifty metres underground, hanging on for dear life, outnumbered, outgunned and wounded. It wasn't a choice, it was a simple decision. Sydney meant more to her than anyone else on the planet, more than her father, more than the mother she'd never met or even known, more than solid, dependable, sweet Weiss. She'd do anything for Sydney, _anything_, but she wasn't sure she'd survive her sister's death...

Half-deaf, barely able to see, well aware that this was almost insanely stupid, she somehow forced herself into a run, jumped even as the train disappeared-her arms and hands slammed into the twisted, bent remains of the rear exit door, her fingernails scratching and catching on buckled metal edges. Her feet hit the ground, glanced off rails before she managed to pull them up. The pain as her chest crashed into sharp steel was better not even imagined, despite the razor-edge searing burn of agony that shot through her. The wind whipped her hair around her fast enough to cut, effectively forcing her to rely on touch to move as she protected her eyes by closing them, even as the shuddering ride bucked and shifted, trying to throw her off.

She gathered every ounce of strength in her body, reached forwards and grabbed a new hold, then another, another, her arms screaming at her with the strain as she defied even gravity to haul herself on board the train, dragging her dead weight forwards and up. She could do it, she WOULD do it...

Back at the station, Dixon groaned and slowly sat up even as Jack tried to rise and failed, too old to recover from so great an impact as quickly as the younger Weiss and Nadia-Nadia? Where _was_ the woman? He looked around sharply, his senses coming back more quickly as he fought past the headache the blast had left behind, ignoring bruises and cuts. Nowhere to be seen…?

"Hey, guys!" called a mans voice-Vaughn's, Dixon identified it as immediately, looking around for the source. Vaughn was standing on the station edge, suit torn and utterly ruined, bleeding from a shoulder wound which was turning his shirt a dark, damp awful red fast. Half his face was covered in half-dried blood, he was standing in a way which strongly suggested a significant limp-but he looked ready to tackle the train with his bare hands if he had to. Good as it was to see him alive, it now took no thought to work out that Sydney was the one on the train now, if she was still alive…

"Damn, did you see that jump?" Vaughn continued, looking the way the train had gone. By the sudden dead silence, Dixon immediately realised that no one else had either. Wonderful, now they had two going concerns completely beyond their control or help on that train.

Y

Sydney dived through the disintegrating window head first even as the grenade went off, popping windows clean out of frames and smashing glass into billions of lethal, tiny fragments in the process, shredding metal, cushions and plastic as the detonation rippled outwards. The train ran past her at a speed which would have crippled her if she'd simply fallen loose to the ground, but her flailing hands caught hold of a rail atop the train even as her gun fell into the darkness, lost. A wrench of unbelievable force took her shoulder right out of the socket, but the brute strength of her muscle and the speed of her reflexes popped it right back in as she swung around, twisting sharply, to slam into the back of the train.

Untangling herself with desperate determination and skilled moves that shifted her weight and body in just the right way, Sydney pulled herself up onto the roof of the carriage and settled herself down flat against it to forge a strong position against the heavy wind resistance. She was so preoccupied that she failed to register the flash of movement and instant of reaction to an impact directly below her, the following grunt of pain simply not registering as she tried to take in her new surroundings. Then she saw men crawling out onto the roof a carriage down, two carriages down, and discovered that she had urgent priorities to consider. No time to consider anything, just to _act_. Her Walther had a ten-shot magazine, then she was dead in the water in a gunfight. It would have to be enough...

She pulled the Walther, using her weight to maintain her tenuous position as she had to release her grip with one hand, considered briefly just how stupid attempting to shoot anyone with any accuracy in an underground tunnel as cramped and conflicted with differing air pressures and obstacles as this one was, then concluded that that wouldn't stop her opponents. Gritting her teeth, ignoring the pain from her side, left forearm and neck, she aimed as best she could-fired. The results were surprising.

She'd been aiming at the nearest two opponents she had, but missed them both and hit the man on the first carriage high in the chest with a freak shot that should have buried itself in concrete. Blood erupted from his chest and he toppled backwards, but wasn't quite dead and managed to grab hold of the protective ridge screen right over the driver's window, hanging on with desperate, failing strength. If he fell he'd go right under the wheels of the train, he knew that, the expression on his face told her every terror he felt. She couldn't bring herself to care overmuch, though.

Then things got extremely bad, very quickly. One of the two men on the coach roof nearest her raised an MP-5 and fired semi-automatic bursts all around her, sparks flying, steel being shredded and pierced, a bullet passing so close to her head as she ducked she felt her hair lift. The man with the shotgun didn't want her dead, apparently, so he fired a blast point-blank in front of her face through the top of the train, meant as a warning. It didn't take, she fired five times in return and blasted the shotgun man completely off of the train with several hits, his body hitting the wall of the tunnel with an awful crack before it vanished from sight spilling blood everywhere.

The last man on the roof edged his way forwards, then managed to leap between the carriages without taking his eyes off of her. If either of them fired the other would almost certainly shoot them before they fell and, given the nature of their environment, a moment's distraction could prove fatal. She should have shot him, but simply wasn't sure she was fast enough on the trigger to beat him to it-even worse, she wasn't sure of the location of the three unaccounted for attackers, at least two of whom she could presume were still mobile and dangerous somewhere in the main body of the train. She couldn't fight hand to hand in these circumstances, but nor could the man after her, yet he seemed unwilling to shoot her. What was he up too?

Suddenly, rapid single-shot gunfire echoed from inside the second carriage, followed by the brief roaring cough of an automatic rifle being fired-followed, moments later, by a roar of explosion from the very front of the train and a sudden, terrible jerk that shifted the trains entire structure despite its several-ton weight. Anything massive enough to shake a vehicle the size of the train was bad news-it rapidly got worse, however, as Sydney, almost mesmerised by a combination of terror and awe, watched the front of the leading carriage, containing the controls and any possibility of stopping the runaway, rise slowly off of the rails into the air after its sharp wheels struck brilliant sparks from the concrete floor.

It hit the roof with a crashing boom of sound and an awful metallic scream, the trains metal skin and structure being subjected to stresses the designers had never imagined even as Sydney opened her mouth to scream-the entire train rolled sharply to one side, then the other, then simply flew right off of the rails into the tunnel walls, ceiling and floor with a sound like the gates of Hell being opened for the last time…

Y

Nadia had finally managed to claw her way inside the ruined remains of the third carriage on the third attempt, her fingertips red with blood, her nails ragged, wrenched her legs up and over the damaged door ledge then slowly, carefully stood up. The door was half off of its runners, which should have made it almost impossible to open, but the grenade blast had done so much damage that the upper half was completely distorted and so far out of place it was possible to crawl through the gap between door and frame. Nadia made a quick check to ensure it was all clear, then did just that, rolling as she hit and coming up gun in hand, ready and waiting. No one was about, it was clear-wait.

The lights were long gone, wind blasted past her ears and eyes with the force of a small hurricane, cutting what she could sense down to a bare minimum, but her instincts warned her something was off before she took another step and she'd always trusted that part of her. She'd had to, growing up a petty thief in Argentina where the Police and any irate occupiers they disturbed might well have opened fire first and asked questions later, a talent which had later served her well as a Spy. It still served her now and always would, as a shadow moved where there was nothing else.

She stood still as death, a statue of ice whose own breath would have given her away. Slowly, a man entered from the second carriage, forcing his way past the battered internal door through sheer brute strength. He was limping heavily, his right ankle heavily bound and tied up, the dark stains on his trousers and boot telling their own story. He was barely able to stand up, being drenched in sweat and in obvious agony, his eyes massively bloodshot, but he was holding a Skorpion Automatic pistol and looked like he knew what to do with it, even in his condition. More importantly, he looked capable of using it and as though he intended to...

Gunfire erupted from above, single shot. The man moved towards the shooters origins slowly and carefully, even as Nadia quickly planned out a way to incapacitate or kill him silently-more gunfire, semi-automatic and heavier, a shotgun. Single-shot multiple return fire, the man was almost in position, but he hadn't seen her...

She came out of the darkness like a Wraith and pistol-whipped the man across the face, breaking his nose. He crashed backwards into the carriage wall and shot the carriage wall with a single shot before her foot connected with his head sharply and nearly broke his neck, knocking him unconscious. Not good enough, she knew, as running feet came closer.

She raised her pistol and charged the door, firing as she went to keep their heads down before they could organise or try to ambush her, one of them letting off a snap shot from an automatic rifle-the train shifted so abruptly and hard to one side she was literally bodily thrown against one wall, before it rolled back and she was thrown against the other wall even harder. The impacts carried massive force and she was left only semi-conscious, but couldn't fail to notice the grinding, wrenching crack of tearing metal and plastics, the unearthly scream of metallic pain that the train was making all of a sudden. Just as it registered that she'd heard an explosion and not known what it was at the time, the train rolled right over before carriages crashed together like a concertina as it whipped back and forth like a snake on hot tiles. Nadia would later describe the experience as "The roller coaster ride straight to Hell", unable to convey it all any other way…

Y

Jack Bristow nearly had a heart attack when he heard the indescribable scream of tortured metal and stonework collapsing colliding together far, far too close to his position. He'd seen and done all kinds of terrible things in his thirty-five years on the job with the CIA, he knew how to inflict the maximum amount of pain with the minimum amount of effort, he knew how to kill and, most importantly now, he knew exactly what to do to create a perfect "accident" involving any vehicle whatsoever. He'd seen, heard and even been in far more than his fair share of disasters over the years, even caused a few, so he had no doubt at all what had happened when he heard those sounds. The monstrous cloud of dust that whipped down the tunnel, nearly blinding him and the rest of the APO team less than thirty seconds after the disaster, merely confirmed it.

The whole tunnel system was shaken by the crash, they would later discover. Stonework shifted and in some cases collapsed on lines a half-mile in every direction, rails bent, water mains were ruptured and pipes bent completely out of shape, fractured electrical connections sparking, gas erupting, people on the surface being knocked off of their feet as vehicles slewed wildly across roads and skidded to frantic stops. APO headquarters was itself was effected despite its reinforced construction, dust filtering down from the ceiling and metal creaking under stress everywhere, only superior, ultra-modern design and materials preventing substantial damage as the area of stone over the roof of APO physically shifted a good foot around and about.

The injured Vaughn collapsed, the crashing impact shaking the ground they all stood on, less than half a mile from the crash site, so hard that his injured leg gave way completely. Weiss looked like he was going into shock, his sense of disbelief as palpable as his horror at the thought that Nadia was aboard the wreck, which had come to such an abrupt stop at far too high a speed in the worst way. Dixon didn't even stop, slowing down to find his way through the dust cloud until he burst through the other side and resumed his sprint. Jack, for one of very few times in his life, was simply frozen-for a long, terrible moment before the professional in him kicked his consciousness so hard he was moving again before he realised it. Standing around staring would do nothing at all.

"_...Skks...Can you hear me? The train has suffered catastrophic derailment from explosives and gone into the walls of the tunnel at high speed. Structural damage is a certainty, further collapse a strong possibility. The area cannot, I repeat __cannot__, be considered either safe or secure. Proceed with extreme caution and be ready for possible collapse and hazard leaks of all descriptions, including Hazmat. I repeat, can you hear me?_" came Sloane's voice over their comms.

"We read you, Arvin. We are on-site now, can confirm damage and situation as catastrophic, the scene resembles the aftermath of high-explosive detonation, debris and bodies are scattered across the scene in complete disarray in all shapes and sizes. Request that Marshall cut all electrical feeds to our location or running through it _now_. I recommend you call Langley urgently and have them make contact with local PD, particularly CSI officers and SWAT assigned. Certain of the individuals aboard the train may have to be "lost" given the obvious circumstances. Commencing the search for Agents Bristow and Santos now, out" replied Jack, staring at the train wreck, at least one of the carriages being physically rammed partway into the roof.

Bodies, body parts, blood, bits and pieces of everyday goods, clothing and pieces of the train were everywhere in a scene lifted from the sickest horror movie that could ever be imagined, covering a scene better imagined than described. _Don't think about her like that_.

He'd seen plenty of horrors, but this... Sometimes, he wished he still believed in any kind of higher power so that he could offer up a Prayer, but he'd lost any faith he'd ever had in such things a very long time ago. If his daughter died in this, though, he swore by everything he held holy he'd find every single person responsible and teach them every single thing he'd ever learnt about pain, loss and despair the hard way, with instruments that he had plenty of practise using. That it would take him the rest of his life and land him in prison forever if he succeeded and survived didn't matter at all. He'd already killed the woman he loved, his wife, the mother of his child, a deed there was no road back from. He had nothing left to loose but the one thing he had left to protect. If he lost that, or rather her...

As Jack merely watched, Weiss, in apparent complete disregard for his own safety, ran in close, jumped on the carriage stuck in the roof and scaled the side until he reached a relatively intact window, which he promptly clambered through. Dixon ran for the second carriage, split in two and jammed right across the tunnel, hoisted himself on top and dropped inside. Jack had to pause as Vaughn abruptly hissed in pain before falling to one knee, apparently too hurt to go on for the moment. Jack took in Vaughn properly, did a quick evaluation and didn't like what he came up with.

Vaughn was still bleeding steadily, if not heavily, from his shoulder gunshot wound. His cheek wound had stopped bleeding at last, but half his face was a bloody mass of drying red trails that covered his face like terrible scars. His left hand was clenched into a tight fist, but his fingers were literally dripping blood to the rails. Vaughn's left leg, under his torn trouser leg, was black and blue with bruises hip to foot, with traces of an ugly red in places, making Jack suspect he'd landed on it when he'd gone out of the train. Those were just the worst of his injuries, also, Jack didn't need to stare to know that Vaughn was carrying a huge number of minor cuts and bruises after his tumbles and efforts so far. That just made his decision easier.

"Agent Vaughn, stay here and keep your eyes open, wide open, there may be survivors or hostiles still mobile and effective down here. Unless you're sure of identity, shoot first and worry later. Treat your wounds as best you can while you wait. I'll handle the rest" ordered Jack, to a glare from Vaughn. The younger agent didn't even try to argue, though, which Jack silently appreciated. In the state he was in he'd have been just another problem, not an asset, even if he'd forced himself to keep going somehow. He was enough of a professional to recognise that. The younger Agent was finally learning...

Jack jogged over to the front carriage after clambering over the one being searched by Dixon, drew his weapon and proceeded to begin his sweep, torch in one hand pistol in the other. The blood and bodies didn't bother him, except for the blood-burst on the driver's compartment door, which clearly suggested a single close-range gunshot-

"SHE'S ALIVE! I'VE GOT HER!" shouted Weiss suddenly, causing Jack to immediately reverse course and step out of the wrecked carriage. He could have asked Weiss who he'd found over comms, of course, but given the situation he wanted to see with his own eyes. For one thing, he'd had time to ascertain for certain that everyone who had been in his carriage was definitely dead.

Y

Sydney was bounced around, up and down to such an extent when the train derailed that she lost all track of even which way the floor and ceiling were, very nearly her sanity and came within moments of death and worse more times than she could ever bear to count. Something hit her in the face like a sledgehammer and filled her mouth with blood, something else pinned her to the wall by her arm-and saved her life in the doing, since whatever it was she fell on top of it moments later and so avoided going under the tumbling train, a fact she would realise much later. Things she didn't want to even imagine hit her from all directions and bounced off or stuck in, caused brief flashes of pain every time, the insane whirligig around her throwing a scream by her ears as someone fell past her in terrible fear before meeting a fate she'd never know. All she could do was try to hang on and, just maybe, pray...

When everything suddenly stopped, just after the lights finally went out and left her in dead-of-night starless darkness, it was so sudden the shock alone paralysed her completely. She lay still for a long minute, then slowly, slowly opened her eyes-to find herself staring at the track from inside the shredded remains of the second carriage, which she had somehow ended up in. No one else was in sight, she couldn't hear anyone or anything at all apart from creaking metal and shifting, cracking stone. She gingerly got to her feet, rubbery legs barely supporting her.

Was it over?

A crash sounded from in front of her, a second-something heavy and metal fell to the ground with an almighty bang, followed by swearing in loud German. She glanced around, there had to be an escape... Manhole access cover. Even in the state she was in she could disappear in the crowds of LA easily, it was all about what, not who. Of course, these lunatics had opened fire on a train with civilians on and executed a non-combatant just to get to her...

She saw a pair of hands grab the top of the carriage in front of her, brace to pull up the owner. She had no more time, she had to go _now_. She managed, somehow, to break into an unsteady run for the ladder leading to the surface.

She glanced back as she grabbed the rungs and started climbing fast, taking in three battered men clambering out of the wreck of the first carriage. Tall, slim and dark-haired with a jagged scar right across his face left forehead to right chin, blood trickling from his mouth even as he barked orders, a man with dead cold ice-chip blue eyes was evidently the leader. He was moving with uncommon grace, even hurt, one hand holding a heavy pistol she couldn't make out the design of in the deep well of darkness they were trapped in-he suddenly looked straight up at her. A look of utter hatred materialised on his scarred face and he immediately ran towards her, his men, both now armed with only pistols and also injured, close on his heels.

_Oh, Hell_ was all that she could think, her battered body barely functioning, her muscles screaming at her even as her injuries slowed her down. Normally she could have gone all day with men like this, gone for a run and a workout at the end of it, but at the moment she felt and looked as though she'd gone twelve rounds on an intensive Close-Quarter combat course where she'd fought seven-foot professional killers and been shot and blown up just to add to the fun. She was hitting her physical limits, there was no sign of Backup, she still had three men after her...

_Escape_. It was the only option left given the state she was in, unless she wanted to push even her luck to its very limits and gamble her life on being able to beat all three of her opponents before she collapsed or made a final mistake. Sydney Bristow didn't make mistakes, though, she recalled Weiss saying once...

Light coming through the holes in the manhole cover nearly dazzled her, but she pushed on and, straining, shifted, then moved the cover out of the way, getting to the surface and rolling roughly to her feet in an alley. They were right behind her, so no time for weakness. She had to find a crowd, get rid of as much of this ruined clothing as she could, get somewhere safe, preferably APO.

She stepped out onto the main street and forced her movements to smooth out, the stiffness to melt away. She drew stares from all quarters and everyone in sight, but she was still a beautiful woman and a smile worked wonders as she casually strolled down the pavement evidently without a care in the world. She even managed to ignore the sound of pounding feet, which abruptly slowed to a fast walk as her pursuers came onto the street after her, even as she made sure to keep people between her and them. She could hear sirens in the nearby area, Police and the other Emergency services attending the scene of the train crash. If they tried anything here half the LA Police force would show up in five minutes with guns blazing after what had occurred, so she was safe from that. Now, if she could just loose the bastards...

She registered the roaring engine of a sports car before her mind processed the fact that she'd glimpsed the scarred leader use what had looked like a Mobile phone. A bright red flash of paint and chrome with windows so clean you could have used them as a mirror to put makeup on shot by-then turned sharply towards her with a screech of rubber burning against tarmac which assaulted her nose as well as her ears. The driver snapped the wheel straight and hit the accelerator, firing the car right at her, smashing past two parked cars, from ten feet away.

She didn't even have time to think before her body responded automatically, jumping up and away, trying to cartwheel her out of the way. It didn't quite work, even though the move saved her from two broken legs as the car glanced off of her rather than crushing her, but even a moments impact was enough to catapult her bodily through the front glass window of a store she was next to, exploding shattered glass erupting in all directions even as it cut into her back, arms and neck. As the floor rushed up to meet her, she dimly thought that she was getting sloppy. She should have anticipated her attackers themselves having Backup...

Y

Nadia woke up with a start, somehow outside the wreck of the train she immediately registered as cool air drifted over her skin-pain hit her like fire lit all over her skin, bones creaked in agony and muscles screamed at her. It felt like she'd had a bomb set off behind her eyes at the same time as suffering from the worst Migraine in the world, waves of awful, indescribable nightmare agony washing over her head...

She blinked, coughed weakly, managed to bite down on a scream that would have been a weak howl at best, blinked again and finally brought the faces over her into focus, despite the fact they wouldn't settle down. Wonderful, apparently she had a Concussion at the very least. Of course, just surviving a train crash of that magnitude was a feat by itself.

Weiss, Jack... Dixon, Vaughn-who was looking much the worse for wear-the whole team was there except her father. She wanted to sit up, have Jack take her in his arms and stroke her hair until the world slowed down and made sense again, just so she could feel truly safe for a few moments... Not that she could ever admit to that, not that she could ever _do_ that. She could never tell Weiss, let alone Sydney, that the man in APO she was really most interested in was Jack Bristow, senior agent and Sydney's own father, any more than she could even imagine acting on that interest, ever. It wasn't something she'd ever discuss, but she could see in the older man what she believed her mother had all those years ago, a "something" which was hard to define, let alone explain, but which just made her feel safe, somehow. He wasn't bad looking, really, either...

She would later vehemently wish that she could blame her moment of open-heart honesty on the Concussion. Jack Bristow got a very odd look on his face for a split-second when he caught her eyes...

"NADIA!"

She nearly screamed at that, as her hearing suddenly came back so fast and hard it almost seemed to be sucking in all ambient sound, then she realised that it was just the echoes of the crash still ringing around her eardrums. Weiss's voice had been the first to penetrate, thankfully, since he wasn't really any good at shouting at her. A gentleman, he never failed to treat her with gentle respect and perfect manners. She really did appreciate him for that, she did, she just couldn't bring herself to fall in love with someone so...well, _safe_. The man she'd met in the _Dionysus_ nightclub, he'd been anything but safe, danger had manifested around him in a delicious taste of thrill and risk. She'd been drawn to it like a moth to a candle, she wasn't afraid to admit it. If he hadn't thrown her off, Weiss or no Weiss she wasn't sure where that would have gone...

"Eric, I can hear you! Stop shouting!" she snapped-to puzzled looks from Vaughn and Weiss, before she realised she'd automatically spoken in Spanish, her native tongue. She repeated herself in English, which made Weiss immediately relax. Vaughn looked like he was going to go off like a bomb at any moment, though, the reason for which took no guesses. _Sydney_.

Jack and Dixon were already up, though, scanning the area-she suddenly realised Jack had woken her up with Smelling Salts-satisfied she was all right, then they spotted it even as she struggled to speak. Too much sunlight was coming down from a manhole entrance, the cover had been moved. Only one person could have done that, or would have trying to escape.

Jack gestured sharply and Dixon practically ran up the ladder, M-16 slung across his back. Jack didn't wait, being right behind Dixon, a reluctant Weiss immediately going after them since Vaughn was simply incapable. Nadia watched them go and the words she'd been going to say died in her throat. Vaughn sat down heavily next to her, gun still in his good hand, then took her left hand in his, his blood smearing against her skin.

Somehow, he managed a smile, even though the effect was almost hideous with the amount of blood on his face and his injuries. He'd used his shirt and jacket, torn to shreds, to bandage the worst of it, but he was still bleeding, if much more slowly. He was starting to look pale and unhealthy, but she knew he'd die before passing out if he wasn't sure Sydney was safe.

"Hey, want to bet she gets them before Eric and the others do?" he asked.

Y

She couldn't move or speak. She could feel blood slowly running out of her body from every single cut she'd received. Every single bruise, graze and knock felt like she'd been dipped in acid. She was lying on her back amidst a shattered sheet of glass that was also all over her, incapable of doing anything at all. If she'd had to consciously do it, she wouldn't even have been able to breathe.

It was all over, alright, but it was over for _her_. The team were going to be too late because they weren't here now and the bad guys were, so no matter what they intended they were going to succeed. She just hoped they killed her rather than taking her away from everyone and everything again. Wiped memory or not, no matter why she'd done it, or not, she wouldn't survive that again, she was utterly sure.

The car reversed away from her back into the street even as her three surviving pursuers came into view, stepping into the store through the shattered window as though they did this sort of thing every day of their lives. Maybe they did, who knew? Not something she had any mind to care about right now. Something made her glance past the men, though, even as screams dully penetrated her consciousness, the sight of people running in all directions away from her should have meant something...

A man was standing behind her attackers. He hadn't been there a second earlier.

Six-foot two, about thirteen stone of compact, solid muscle and elegant bone structure. Dark auburn hair fell to his shoulders, sideburns leading to a small moustache and chin beard, while electric blue eyes of mesmerising intensity burned in a sharply handsome face, almost literally. Sharply dressed in a jet-black suit and tie, wearing a white shirt, he had a cigarette in his mouth that was half-finished and looked as though he was going to a Funeral.

A second-long look made her believe she was looking straight at the Devil himself. Then, all of a sudden, she knew his name.

_Cole._

"_Killer" Cole._

_The Saint of Killers._

Suddenly, she was petrified and didn't know why, didn't _understand_ why. Even _Sloane_ had never provoked this kind of reaction at his worst... She'd never seen this man before. Ever. _How_ did she know his name...?

Cole took one last drag on his cigarette, then tossed it so it hit the attackers scar-faced leader on the back of the head. Scar-faces expression was sheer astonishment, then disbelief, then cold anger. He span around-Cole shot him in the face at point blank, catapulting him backwards like he'd been hit by a truck as his brains fell out the back of his head. Sydney blinked, she hadn't seen Cole even draw a weapon, no one was that fast-

Cole suddenly held a second weapon, a second 9MM pistol, then shot both men in the back of the head before they even registered what was happening. Gunfire cracked outside, Cole rotated smoothly and fired twice, two screams sounded and the shooting stopped. He stepped out of the shop front.

Gunfire erupted left and right, all of it aimed at him from several locations. He simply moved, so fast and fluid she didn't register the movements he was so focused, so disciplined in nature and action. A step to the left, a step to the right, a quick crouch, a duck, shots back aimed and fired-she estimated at least eight shooters, within a minute no one was doing anything.

A car engine abruptly roared, coming straight at him fast, the same one which had hit her. He fired once, killed the driver, the car slewed out of control, hit a set of parked cars and rolled into mid-air for long seconds, flipping completely over and just missing him before crashing down on the other side of the street. He fired once more, a tongue of flame shot into the sky and a dull thump sounded as the cars fuel tank exploded, washing fire across the street and shattering windows while destroying cars. Something flashed by and struck her in the top of the head, but she was in so much pain the flash of further agony, or at least so little, barely even registered. She'd worry about it if she lived.

A final man came at him with a knife from under a car too close to shoot. Cole just holstered his pistols, grabbed the mans knife hand and twisted it so hard so fast that she felt rather than heard the desperate man's arm break in two places as he dropped the knife. He never screamed, though-despite frantic clawing, Cole's hand over his mouth and nose stopped his breath far too quickly. He went limp, then his eyes went glassy before he collapsed limp as a rag doll, very clearly dead.

Cole turned and walked over to her, kneeling down next to her. He checked her breathing, her pulse and her eyes before nodding, making an O with his finger and thumb-for okay? -turning and walking away. He was gone long before her father, Dixon and Weiss arrived at the scene at a dead run, but they had to stop to take in the carnage all around, despite the surgically precise killings and destruction that had occurred, checking for survivors. She knew there were none.

Sydney felt as though she'd met Death itself, even as a strange voice she didn't know drifted through her mind, coming from nowhere. The lush voice of a woman with a strong Italian accent, speaking words she didn't understand.

"_I never touch before I taste_"

She glimpsed a silver knife blade slick with red blood, hers, on the very tip. A woman's dark Mediterranean body, her lower face as a pink tongue tasted that blood. The woman was naked, Sydney could almost taste the sweat that touched that impossible body.

"_But I always have what I want_"

Full bee-stung ruby red lips that almost seemed to shift like blood embraced hers...

/End of Chapter 3. All Reviews welcomed/.


	5. Chapter 5

For all disclaimers: See Part 1.

All Reviews welcomed.

**The Last Day**

_Cairo, 2005_

The amber liquid in the short glass flowed slowly from side to side, front to back, before it was abruptly thrown up and tossed back into the mouth of the woman holding it. The Scotch whiskey burned its way down her throat all the way to her stomach, making every part of her that it touched feel both pain and alive. It was an odd combination at best, but described her well.

She wasn't exactly young at thirty-four, but her creamy, slightly pale white skin, willowy good looks and the full, curly chestnut brown hair that fell halfway down her back made her look ten years younger, added to her almost slight five-seven frame. The physique of a world-class Olympic athlete, compact muscle and a dangerous grace of movement made people look twice. Chestnut eyes in a fine-featured beauty of a face and easy curves in all the right places about her slender body, barely hidden by a half-removed black evening dress hanging loose about her shoulders and chest, did the rest. Her name was Katya Aquila, Kate to her friends, but nowadays she simply preferred "Selene". It wasn't really a nickname or an alias, no matter what anyone thought.

Dark eyes glinted in the artificial bright lights of the hotel as she glanced around herself from the balcony, taking in everything but sensing nothing. Satisfied once again, she settled both elbows on the white-painted metal balcony and leaned her head back to take in what she could see of the stars amidst the smog of the overcrowded city, the metal cool against the soles of her bare feet. No one was anywhere nearby or about her bar those she knew, the way it had to be.

A clink of glass sounded behind her as she sensed the presence of another close behind. She knew who it was from the scent of expensive perfume before the other woman spoke. A good thing, given that sneaking up on her, or even attempting to, was at best described as a truly dangerous idea.

"May I join you?" asked the older woman, her voice carrying a heavy Spanish accent touched by a little Russia-and a tiny part America that she'd never admit to. The woman knew her place amidst the Sisters, at least.

"Come. Bring something strong" replied Kate, her voice touched by traces of a very strong upper-class English accent that was disappearing completely as time went on. Not that it mattered, she spoke, read and wrote nine languages she could adapt perfectly, right down to regional accents, dialect shifts and histories. When she assumed any of them her style and use were flawless, as had to be the case. She only made a half-hearted attempt to keep the original accent out of some fading sense of loyalty to Queen and country. British born and bred she might be, but she owed very little loyalty or duty to the land her family called home.

"I like Russian vodka, you can keep the whiskey" replied the older woman, stepping into view to Kate's right before leaning backwards against the balcony. She was wearing a bright bloody red evening gown that was rumpled and worn from a long evenings wear, no shoes and none of the expensive jewellery that had been on display earlier that night. Long jet-black hair fell to her waist in an easy silk wave, surrounding a tall, powerfully built figure that was all smooth lines, full curves and hard muscle. Deep dark brown eyes glinted in a flawless face of striking beauty, while creamy chocolate brown skin was lit up by pale nightlights about them. Thirty-six years old and looking far younger, luminously healthy while bright eyes hid a depth of darkness that had long ago swallowed her whole, the second woman was called Anna Espinoza. Cuban-born but Russia-raised, she'd never lost either the accent or the mannerisms of her homeland.

"The more the merrier, even if they can't hold their drink. Where's Cole, anyway?" asked Kate, raising an eyebrow. Cole was the only name that man had she'd ever known or used-or wanted to know after seeing him work. Even including Talia and Bourne, she'd never met anyone more dangerous than that man...

"He chose six of the twenty-five year olds on offer, took them all to one's room and hasn't come out since after going in there at eleven. Its one thirty and you can hear the screams from down the corridor, don't ask" replied Anna, waving away Kate's glance.

"Very well. Are Talia and Julia...preoccupied, or shouldn't I ask about that either?" asked Kate. She barely noticed Anna's momentary shaking of her head.

"Those two? Please, we'd have to set fire to their rooms to get them out and hunting anything but each other. If you want to know what they're doing now, ask them" replied Anna, dryly. Kate just looked at her, then stared back off into space. No one ever interrupted Talia when she wanted to be left alone. Ever.

Y

The woman known as Talia didn't drink, but right at this moment she was wondering if she should, if she should break one of her golden rules. She had three: _never_ make it personal_, never_ be in doubt and _never_, _ever_ leave it to chance. Two and Three she'd never broken, never would, but she _had_ broken rule One once, for a young man she'd never seen since. After that, his disappearance had hurt so much she'd made a silent promise to herself: never, ever again. But, then this had happened...

She was lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, at anything and nothing. Her mind was clear and silent, her body was relaxed, her guard was down. She didn't know what the Hell what she was doing, let alone if she should ever have even considered actually doing it...

Pressed tight against her sweat-slick body, head on her shoulder, right leg wrapped over both of her own, right arm slung possessively over her chest, breasts pressing against Talia's right-side ribs, face and head nuzzled into her loose hair and neck, the thing she should never have done was still and sleeping soundly pressed tight against her. Blond hair trailed against and through her own very dark mahogany brown locks, strands meshing, while the other woman's soft, golden-tanned white skin gently pressed against her own tawny colouring. She could sense more than feel the hard muscle in that long body, even while she could sense the vital weaknesses all over it the other woman tried to hide. Talia simply didn't have flaws or possibilities of such, one of the benefits and drawbacks of a training style and physical regime that should have hospitalised her easily. She could have taught the other woman these things, but she wouldn't make that kind of sacrifice...

Young and beautiful at thirty, hard as granite and as sharp as diamond edges on the outside, she was soft as putty on the inside yet had a backbone and will of solid forged steel. Easily a genius intellectually, Talia knew that the woman was smarter than she was, but that hadn't stopped her either. She wondered what that meant, if anything...

Talia, the hedonistic, arctic-cold, amoral and viciously ruthless sociopathic party animal, Hell-born and forged bitch queen, dark Goddess of the underworld they all lived in, against Julia Thorne, cold, calculating hellcat, thorough and final in action and intent. She, Talia, was a killer born and bred, even though sometimes she'd thought otherwise, a long, long time ago. Julia? She could have been anything she'd wanted to be, yet here she was.

If Julia Thorne was her real name Talia didn't doubt the Moon was made of green cheese. If this path was her chosen way then someone in this room had been brainwashed or threatened with something truly ugly. She didn't know which and was having great difficulty finding out, but she would. There was no way she was simply going to leave questions like THAT hanging.

She felt Julia's warm breath on her throat and the long, sleek lines of her body against her own. Yet again she couldn't quite think through just what the Hell was really happening here, worse, just what she was, or _thought_ she was doing. She'd break Julia Thorne, no matter what she did, she knew it deep, deep down in the pits of the Hell she'd once called her Soul. No one was built to or capable of withstanding her for long, it just didn't happen. It was why she never got close to anyone, really, they all wanted what they couldn't have and even touching it tore them a new hole in the part of the mind where reason lay. She liked Julia, she really did, but she'd never planned for it to come to _this_.

What, in the name of everything that might ever have existed, was she doing? What was she _going_ to do? This couldn't _happen_-

_Knk. Knk._

Talia was out of bed, on her feet by the door and ready with a knife in one hand and a nerve strike prepared in the other before the second knock had echoed. Julia's pistol was somewhere among the tangled, scattered clothes, gear and weapons all about, but she didn't like, or need, guns. Whoever was out there would need an explanation they wouldn't believe to stop her removing their fingers and toes until she got an answer she could accept. She pitched her voice high deliberately.

"Who is it?" she called, voice high and artificial rather than the sultry, honey-sweet sensual purr that was her natural form of speech. No one would recognise her that way unless it was one of the Sisters.

"Room Service! Actually, it's me, Toni, got some stuff to check, Jules said to drop round if I needed a chat. She in there? Got sent this way by Anna?" called back a musical voice, lilting and with a sensual ease of speech which, added to her American accent, made identification easy. Talia made a mental note to make very clear to Anna practical jokes got you killed when she'd dealt with this.

She unbolted and unlocked the door, opened it and dragged the startled Toni inside before slamming it shut, all so quick Toni didn't even realise what was happening. Then she had a knife against Toni's larynx before the other woman could even draw breath, Toni nearly dying as her eyes bulged when she realised the ice-white razor blade would slit her throat if she even drew breath. She didn't do anything for several long seconds, at all, then nearly collapsed with trembling knees as Talia pulled away the knife-before Talia's free hand closed around her neck with such a forceful grip it was terrifyingly obvious she could have made her fingers meet with little more effort.

Toni was on her knees, the room starting to go dark around her as she choked, not even daring to touch the hand of the woman holding her down, who was watching her with fabulous eyes which belonged to nothing on Earth. She felt the darkness rising in the back of her head, felt the pain ebbing away as she lost track of reality... Talia finally let her go. She collapsed to hands and knees, desperate and half-dead, starved of air with a desperate wish to survive...

"_First_: don't EVER disturb me again. _Second_: speak when spoken to in my presence unless I say otherwise or it won't matter what you had to say, ever. _Third_: when your hired by the Styx Sisters, take your instructions from others but understand that you answer to _me_. Now get up, stop coughing, do not throw up on my carpet and tell me why you're here" said Talia, striding away into the bedroom even as Toni slowly managed to force herself to a kneeling position, before bracing herself against the wall as she slowly stood, her back pressed against the wall to hold her up as she felt as weak as a newborn kitten.

Around Anna's height, toned and fit with a fine-boned beauty and chocolate-brown flawless skin, long-limbed and slim with lush curves which took peoples attention off of hard muscle, a full head of dark-brown hair and eyes completing the set, even at the age of forty Toni Cummings was more than capable of holding her own in any fight most people would have cared to try. No skilled agent in such things, she still knew her way around guns, knives and bombs as well as most soldiers did, but she knew better than to try to mix it up with the professionals.

More to the point, she knew better than to even contemplate so much as getting the attention of a professional killer who was simply described as "Death" by everyone who'd ever met her and survived. Still, she'd never even guessed that merely being in the same room as her could kill you...

Toni was still patting down her light-blue jeans and loosely buttoned shirt when Talia came back in, now wearing a jet-black silk robe that only accentuated breathtaking physical beauty and a body worth dying in terrible Sin for. Sweaty, tired, just out of bed with some lover after a ten-hour plane flight and a long drive through the chaos of Cairo's city streets following a marathon planning and organisation session, with no sleep at one-thirty in the morning... The younger woman could have tempted Christ himself with just a glance from those smouldering eyes after all that. Hell, avowed lover of men that she was and then some, Toni was more than slightly tempted herself-she caught a glimpse of someone on the bed as the bedroom door swung shut, blond haired... She nearly swallowed her tongue keeping her mouth shut and anything of what she was thinking off of her face as the pieces came together with what had to be an audible "CLICK" in her mind. Anna and she were going to have words about this...

"Well?" asked Talia, one eyebrow raised in a distinct sign of irritation. Toni swallowed, then got on with it, fast.

"Well, it's like this. I don't doubt that you girls and the guy can do your part, Hell, I wouldn't dare, but your rep and Walkers crew is top-level so that's only part of it. The problem here is that no one has ever actually seen the place or done anything more than basic background. Blueprints, layouts, security services, locks and keys, personnel, yadda yadda yadda. All of that's just background noise, though we need it done. My point is that you don't know a place unless you been there, end of story. We've got a timetable, a plan and an escape planned, but something this big _can't_ go wrong or were all neck-deep in the nasty stuff. I don't know 'bout you, but I want to case the joint and I wanted Jules with me. That's my piece" said Toni, the words flowing from her mouth so fast she didn't stop to think once.

Talia looked her in the eyes, then nodded, long hair falling about her face in a way which made Toni want to reach out and brush it away so badly she almost had to sit on her hands. Damn, she was going to need a cold shower if she stayed in the room much longer with Talia looking like that...

"Agreed, Julia and I will come tomorrow, we'll pick up Simon on the way, be ready at seven. Anything else?" relied Talia, just her voice making a shiver run up and down Toni's spine.

"No, were cool" relied Toni, fighting the urge to sprint from the room. She could do this, she could...

"Fine. Get some sleep" said Talia, as she strode over to and pulled open the door. Toni moved fast to get out, but not quite fast enough as Talia's hand closed in a terribly firm grip around her upper left arm that forced Toni to turn back to face her momentarily. "Just one last thing..." said Talia, her breath warming Toni's face...

The kiss, on the lips, was long, slow, tender and so torturously perfect in form and nature that Toni simply stopped breathing as it sank in. She'd never remember just how long it lasted, but she'd never forget either the woman or the pleasure. Nobody kissed liked this, but then nobody else was like this...

Talia pulled away slowly, so slowly that Toni felt a tear winding its way down her cheek before she did. The slow, sultry smile that spread across Talia's face could have swallowed her whole.

"Sleep well" said Talia, then simply shut the door in her face. Toni couldn't do anything but stand there for long minutes, listening to the door be locked and bolted again before Talia silently walked away, until she finally managed to break her paralysis through a sudden anger. That anger burnt her mind clear, but didn't stop her storming off through the hotel, cuffing at the tears on her face with one hand. She didn't even register what she was doing or where she was going until she caught the rumble of heavy metal music pounding through the half-open door just ahead, took in the rumble of deep male voices and the distinctive Irish accent she was looking for amongst them.

Walker's crew, a four-man team of mercenary specialists who had access to a deliberately unique set of skills and resources for the job in hand. She was only after their boss.

She almost kicked the door down in a sudden surge of violence, eyes locking on Simon Walker, Julia's ex. Mid-thirties, strong and fit, six feet tall, black hair and dark brown eyes, ruggedly handsome, a well-known womaniser and drinker who blamed his ways and violence on the blood of slaughtered Irishmen in the cause against the British occupier in his homeland, even though he'd left Ireland as a youth and never gone back, or fought there. At a table surrounded by the three other men on his team he was playing a game of Poker with strong whiskey in a bottle to hand, but had pulled a snub-nosed gun at her entrance, all of them replacing concealed weaponry as she stalked in. He was bare-chested and only wearing worn brown trousers, she noticed, but stank of sweat and alcohol so it did nothing for her. Too bad.

"Here, what's all this then, woman-?" he began, rising to his feet as she walked over to him. Ignoring the question, she grabbed him and kissed him hard, biting down on his lower lip before getting more serious with her tongue, ramming him up against the wall hard as she did. He didn't mind, he liked it rough and ready. He grabbed her arms and expertly twisted her around, crushing her against the wall, hands moving from arms to breasts as she felt the buttons of her shirt give way. She wasn't wearing a bra and he knew what he was doing...

It wasn't working.

"SHIT!" she screamed, before hauling off and punching Walker full in the face so hard he went over backwards with a bloody nose. She kicked the table so hard it flipped right over, scattering cards and winnings everywhere, but the men, leaping to their feet in anger, were persuaded not to do anything by one look at her expression.

"SHIT!" she snapped again, then added "Bitch" under her breath since that didn't quite seem to say it. Throwing up her hands, she stormed out, heading for her room and an ice-cold shower. "Sleep well" _how_ after _that_!

One of his men looked at Walker, who was standing up as he checked his bloody lower lip, then at the door as the upset woman disappeared down the passageway. He turned to look back at Walker before saying anything, a question on his face.

"Simon, what the Hell was that all about?" asked the man, strong Spanish accent coming across as he spoke. The confused look he got back answered nothing.

"No idea, mate" replied Walker, slowly. "No idea at all..."

Julia Thorne was sitting up in bed, woken by the talking, when Talia came back in to the bedroom, from where she watched with a glint in her eye as Talia's robe smoothly slipped off of her body onto the floor before Talia came back to the bed. Talia almost seemed to hesitate, then leaned forwards and kissed her in a way which suggested any number of possibilities once she remembered that she was still alive.

"Well?" Julia asked, sure that the other woman had something to tell her she needed to know. Talia just placed a hand over Julia's heart, taking in the slow but steady relaxed beat, then shifted in such a way against Julia that thinking was the last thing on her mind.

"I'll tell you tomorrow..."

/End of Chapter 4. All reviews welcomed/.


	6. Chapter 6

For all disclaimers: See Part 1.

All Reviews welcomed.

**The Last Day**

_LA, 2007, APO headquarters, five days ago_

DCI Hayden Chase strode into APO with an expression on her face that spoke of trouble of the final kind for anyone who got in her way and a look in her eyes that stopped everyone dead ten feet away, arriving an hour after the catastrophic chase through the Los Angeles underground and following gunfight in the streets that had left two CIA Agents hospitalised and a number of "other" individuals in the Morgue.

She headed for Sloane's office without stopping to acknowledge anyone at all, even Dixon as he rose from his seat behind his console, shoved the door open with extremely unnecessary force and slammed both hands down on Sloane's desk so hard that everyone in the office instantly found something else vital to do or observe.

An Agent of the CIA for over twenty years, the Director for two now, Hayden Chase had risen steadily through the ranks despite prejudices against both her gender and her race added to professional rivalry through the simple method of being better than _anyone_ else who did the same job. Cool, calm, collected and always coldly rational, Chase was renowned for her penetrating exceptional intelligence, her skill at multi-tasking, her ability to sort through, absorb and analyse huge amounts of information in small periods of time and her simple gift of competence-she never, ever, made mistakes.

Ruthless, resourceful and efficient, her record as an Analyst and then a Field Agent was beyond either reproach or criticism as not one agent, partner or officer of any federal, foreign or local agency she'd ever had contact with had been able to find a single critical thing to say about her. It was simple fact that she always knew more than everyone else about what was going on, who was doing it and why. It was also a fact that she never lost her temper, which was one of the things which left Sloane almost startled when she came crashing in.

"_Mister_ Sloane, my office has been fielding calls from Homeland Security, the Department of Defence, the FBI, the Mayor of LA, the Governor of State, the LAPD and CTU LA for the past hour. Every single one of those calls has concerned an apparent terrorist attack on the LA underground service which has left 25 people in the Morgue, three in Hospital, including two agents of APO, caused an almost full-scale shutdown of the LA underground service and created a possible need to call out the National Guard to police the streets of this city after a catastrophic gun battle in those streets which left an area of major road half a mile long looking like a War Zone. All I have been able to say that whole time, to all of them, is that "The matter is in hand" while carefully making sure the identities of the people they were after remain "need to know". The NSA actually called me and asked if we needed to borrow one of their housekeeping units to clean up our mess. All I could say was "I'll get back to you on that". Do you understand me, _mister_ Sloane? I have had to leave my office in the middle of what amounts to disaster management to come here and explain this to you because my phone has been ringing off the hook" Chase almost exploded, even as all Sloane could do was wait for her to finish before he could speak.

"APO is a top-secret covert Black Ops unit which doesn't even officially exist, so all I can do is deny everything, do you understand me? I created this unit based on the experiences of the agents involved in working undercover for extended periods in unique circumstances, selecting only people capable of getting the job done no matter what. No one, but no one, can discover this unit exists, or even that it might, since it is to all intents and purposes an illegal enterprise pursued by the DCI on the basis of the necessity for such a unit to go where the CIA officially cannot. Therefore, I need from you now a very, very good explanation, Director Sloane, of why I shouldn't walk away and leave you to handle your own mess" Chase almost snarled, clearly furious.

Sloane had to choose his words very carefully. He knew that the moment he saw Chase, let alone heard her out. Thankfully, he was a past master at manipulating the situation and the facts to best advantage, even the truth didn't amount to that much in the end, so he quickly knew exactly what to say.

"Agents Bristow and Vaughn already have a watertight Cover story in place along with detailed explanations of what they were doing and where they were going to feed the authorities, which is standard practise at APO as you know. As well as this, I have already created a suitable "explanation" for the news agencies and anyone else who might come looking for answers that will take all of them in any direction at all _but_ towards APO. I have a copy on my desk, you can review it at your leisure" Sloane began, tapping a slim dossier on his desk with a finger.

"Jack Bristow and Agent Weiss have already sanitised the train for any evidence connecting APO and the CIA to anything at all which occurred, while I have Marshall planting information, disinformation and simple lies as necessary wherever we have to, dated right and wrong, to cover up leaks anywhere along the line which might just make it difficult to...explain certain things, shall we say. Agent Dixon is currently monitoring the situation on every information channel, if anything occurs which needs attention he and Marshall can and will deal with it. Before you ask, Nadia is in the Hospital with her sister due to the extent of Sydney's injuries. She can be reached by Mobile phone in seconds if necessary and is fit for duty" said Sloane, talking Chase through the measures being taken to get the situation under control quickly, clearly and precisely.

He had a distinct advantage when dealing with Chase, the fact that they both knew she'd put him in charge of APO over Jack Bristow on the basis that he had a proven skill and track record of successfully manipulating people, situations and even events that no one could have predicted to somehow deliver him a distinct advantage at very worst. If Sydney Bristow was the resident Saint of the CIA then he was the Devil, a fact that people tended to forget since, of course, the old bastard had the best of everything, including the wines. There was no one better than him at what he did, especially since no one crossed him and lived to boast. Simply put, if he couldn't maintain APO as a covert presence short of catastrophe or unimaginable disaster it couldn't be done-and Chase knew it. Her slight relaxation as he spoke let him know that she remembered that fact, too.

Chase sat down in the chair in front of his desk and picked up the dossier he'd compiled of ongoing efforts to resolve the situation, opening it to the first page. She started to read it fast-then glanced up at him sharply.

"One last thing: have your people been able to identify anyone who took part in the attacks yet? I find it hard to believe, but our Analysts are drawing a blank in Langley so far" asked Chase.

"Maybe one, but we'll know more when Sydney wakes up. Its all in the Dossier" replied Sloane. Scar-face had seemed remarkably similar when Jack had first described the dead man, despite the nature of his wounds making a visual identification so difficult...

_LA General Hospital_

Seeing Sydney tucked up in a white hospital bed, white sheets tucked neatly around her as an IV drip fed into her arm, wearing a blue-green medical gown that did nothing to cover up massive bruising, a variety of cuts and scrapes all over her body and the dark shadows that definitely were caused by exhaustion and worse around her eyes, was almost more than Nadia Santos could stand. Bad enough her sister had been so seriously injured in the vicious attack that she'd been left Comatose, even worse that the Doctors, while they'd cleaned, patched and stitched her up, had stated that internal injuries were very likely. Worst of all was the fact that no one could even guess at when she might wake up-and Nadia knew full well that the longer victims of injuries like Sydney's remained so near death, the worse the likely outcome if they did. It was even possible someone as badly hurt as Sydney was might never wake up properly...

She couldn't think of that, she wouldn't. Sydney would be fine, there was no discussion, possibility of difference from that conclusion or other option to even be considered. She-would-be-_fine_. She, Nadia, just had to think positively and everything would turn out all right. Her sister was the bravest, most brilliant, incredible person she'd ever met, it would take more than even all of this-a train wreck, a car crash hit-and-run, beatings and massive lacerating injuries from the glass window she'd been blasted through-to come close to even possibly finishing her. No question.

_But_, she couldn't get out of her mind the sight through the small surgery doors windows of a three-inch shard of metal being extracted by the surgeons from the centre of Sydney's head, where it had slashed right through the skull into the brain. Let alone the fact that Sydney had almost gone into convulsions when it was removed, then started muttering something over and over in a language no one had understood until she'd finally lapsed back into a deep Coma-apparently at least. She wished Jack was here, or her father, or even Eric…

After a solid hour of just sitting in the small armchair in the private ward just sitting staring at Sydney's comatose form, Nadia realised that she simply _had_ to get up and around, she had to do something or she was going to drive herself crazy with worry and fear. She knew there were other CIA Agents watching Sydney's room-Jack Bristow had made sure there was a small army around the whole ward area, just in case-so she stood up and walked out to find a drinks machine, making a point of spotting every Agent on the way. Two near the door, six along the fifty-yard stretch leading just out of sight of the room. All but one of them marked her, too. Professionals, that was what mattered to her when anything as significant as her sister's life was at stake. There was no room for mistakes.

It was so late now night had fallen long ago, the bright golden gleam of the sun over LA having been washed away by a tide of inky-black darkness so quickly that she'd only just registered the fact. However, as she fumbled for money with her bandaged hands-severely clipped nails, bindings about fingertips to protect against infection in the areas where the skin had been torn clean off, battered and bruised hands and body numbed by a shot to reduce the pain-she couldn't help but think she'd had her reasons for being so distracted.

She normally liked a Cappuccino with plenty of cream, but right now she intended to stay awake until Sydney woke up so she took her coffee black and heavy with enough sugar to get the attention of an addict. She didn't have a real sweet tooth, but she'd read that sugar gave you energy and she needed that now. As time went on she'd do what she had to, until she either passed out or was relieved by one of the APO team. Sydney had to wake up soon, she had to.

Maybe she could chat to Sydney about her early years in Argentina, before she even joined Argentinean Intelligence? Tell her about Roberto Fox, Sophia Vargas, Cesar Martinez? After all, Sydney knew nothing at all yet about that part of her life… Talking to someone in a Coma was supposed to be helpful if they recognised your voice and would react to you. The only people Sydney might react to apart from her were Jack, Vaughn-or Irina, their dead mother… So it had to be worth a try? She sipped the coffee, almost scalding her tongue, which created a delicious surge of clarity as her tired mind woke up again with the pain. Yes, she'd try that. No one else could hear her, though, these things were personal to her, even though she'd share them with Sydney. She trusted Sydney with her life, let alone her secrets, her Soul...

Her mobile abruptly rang, she fished for it with her free hand and flipped it open, taking a second longer than she would have normally. "Yes?" she asked, already sure of who it would be.

"_Its Jack. I'm on my way as we speak. Is there any change at all in Sydney's condition?"_ came Jacks deep voice, as controlled and disciplined to not display any emotion, even where his own daughter was concerned, as ever. Most people would have thought he was a ruthless, cold-blooded bastard, a man who cared more for achieving mission objective than he did for human life. In reality, ninety-nine times out of a hundred that would be right-but Sydney would never, ever be anything but _the_ exception for Jack.

Nadia knew him well enough now to be sure there was the faintest of tremors in his voice when he spoke, as close as he got to displaying actual concern even in this situation. She couldn't help but wonder whether or not she'd hear that tone in his voice if she ever got so badly hurt her life was at very real risk...

"No change, sorry. I'm going to be at her bedside for as long as it takes or until you get here, though, so don't worry. The Doctors say she will recover, though, no wound she suffered is fatal or permanently incapacitating. Its best you talk to them to hear the rest" said Nadia, sipping her coffee as she walked and talked.

She heard Jack reply "_Understood_" on some level, but everything had suddenly become less important for her when she spotted the woman going the other way. She never was quite able to explain why.

She barely realised that the woman had to be at least in her mid sixties given her appearance, only her odd body language giving it away. Five foot eight, close to ten stone of solid muscle on a lean, slender frame with a long, powerful, distance-eating stride that suggested neither fear nor hesitation had ever been anything to her. Long raven-black hair fell loose to her waist, traces of iron grey adding a touch of emptiness to the almost nightmare darkness. Flawless, unimaginable grace and elegance personified, long-limbed and curved with a dreams physique, a smooth face that could have taken thirty years off of her age with a combination of Slavic and Roman blood making her so much more than merely beautiful, the ageing woman possessed an allure and sensuality in presence and form that women forty years her junior would have killed for.

With a presence that would have shamed the greatest Demagogue the world ever knew and the kind of natural charisma Politicians dreamed of their entire lives, what really held Nadia, despite everything, was her eyes. Cobalt blue, electric, steel-hard and ice-cold, an infinite intensity hid behind those incredible orbs that couldn't ever be comprehended. One look at her, one glance in those fabulous, impossible eyes and Nadia almost wanted to kneel down to the woman. Meeting that gaze was the psychological equivalent of watching Armageddon, she'd later try to reason, a thing so terrible that imagination wasn't enough but you still could never look away. If the woman had told her to do something in that long, terrible moment, Nadia was never able to say for sure that she could have said "No".

The woman walked on past with only the one brief glance, leaving Nadia shaking like a leaf for how long she didn't know. The woman had only been wearing a black skirt, shoes and shirt, a dark-brown leather duster over that, her hair almost crackling as it slid about her shoulders and throat, but it had felt like she'd met an Archangel from Hell.

She was a seasoned Agent for Argentinean Intelligence, she worked for a covert sub-division of the CIA so secret it didn't even officially exist, she'd faced death and worse several times, been tortured, shot, stabbed, had her heart utterly broken by betrayal. She'd never met a mother who'd been killed before she could, except as a new born, who'd turned out to be an international Terrorist, Assassin and Spy wanted in most of the countries on every continent on the planet for acts so obscene that it was more than difficult to imagine, or so she'd often found-how Sydney dealt with such things, she'd never asked.

She'd first met her father at the age of twenty seven and not only discovered that he was at least as "bad" as her mother, but that he was willing to torture his own child to discover the secrets of a 500 year dead inventor and philosopher whose works had obsessed him for over thirty years, effectively his entire adult life. One way or another she'd lost almost everything she'd believed in getting this far, something few people recognised, but her sister and her seemingly reformed father-and Jack, if she was being honest-had not only been absolutely solid pillars of support for her, but had kept her both sane and honest.

She was where she was supposed to be, she knew that now, with a sister she loved more than anything, a father she was coming to believe she could trust and...well, what Jack was to her was tricky, but she needed him regardless, at least as much as anyone but Sydney. Regardless, after all of that, could just a second-long glance from a woman she'd never met and didn't know leave her feeling as though she'd been to a place that was the next step worse than Hell?

Yes.

She suddenly realised that her phone was still active. Worse, that Jack was still on the line-and that he was still speaking.

"_NADIA!? Answer me-!_" snapped Jack, his annoyed tone serving to snap her out of her shock faster than a bucket of ice-cold water ever would.

"...Sorry, just met...someone...Jack, Sydney's fine and will be, should be waking up soon. Just get here, please. Was there anything else?" she managed, not quite sure how she was stringing coherent sentences together.

"_Yes. __Focus__, Nadia, no distractions, no matter who or what. My-Sydney has a number of enemies who may be surveilling her who could learn of what's happened and choose to use it to their advantage, despite her cover. Make absolutely sure this does not happen, no matter __what__ you have to do should such a situation arise. I would also suggest that you ask one of the Agents to check on Agent Vaughn, he is unable to supply a status update due to his treatment for his injuries. I'll be there in five minutes. Be ready. Goodbye_" said Jack, then he hung up. Nadia folded her mobile away carefully, took another sip of coffee, nodded to the Agents-in plainclothes and armed, of course-on the door and stepped inside Sydney's room.

She dropped the coffee, the plastic cups top coming off as the impact on the ground sprayed boiling hot coffee all over her trouser legs. It hurt like Hell through the thin fabric, but she didn't even notice. She took a step backwards, hit the door and stopped moving, but didn't even notice. She stopped, then simply stared.

Sydney, no marks, cuts or bruises or any other sign of trauma anywhere on her body, a body largely exposed by her hospital gown which opened wide at the back, was sitting up in bed, looking slightly confused. She looked as though she'd been asleep and done nothing worse than have some bad dreams.

"Nadia?" Sydney said slowly, tentatively, as though she wasn't quite sure what she was saying or doing. "Nadia...where am I? More to the point, who was that?" she asked, taking a long moment since she'd just recovered consciousness to absorb the absolutely stunned expression on her sister's face.

"Nadia...?"

_CIA Mobile Prison 17, location: Classified_

To keep certain exceptionally dangerous prisoners secure, standard CIA protocol was to move them on an irregular basis through a series of high-security covert jails at speed by air with a six-man escort, location, timing and even the prisoner's identity being classified to the highest levels to maintain security. Terrorist leaders, high-ranking foreign agents, the "dead" and prisoners that never even existed were among the very small number of assignments dealt with by the IID, the Interrogation and Investigation Division, a sub-division of CIA Security that dealt exclusively with issues and threats that other parts of the CIA either couldn't or didn't know about.

With the full backing of the DCI, completely unofficially as a matter of simple course, the IID did whatever it had to do to get intelligence or simply answers from whoever was placed under its jurisdiction. They could do whatever they had to because no one ever knew what they did, with very rare exceptions. They never failed.

Guantanamo Bay was the front for most of what really went on behind the scenes, where the real work was done, by every intelligence Agency which was serious about gathering serious intelligence. Every Agent of the IID knew that what they were doing was absolutely and critically important to the security and interests of the USA, so no one ever asked questions.

Even among the individuals held by the IID, however, some held were considered so exceptionally dangerous that measures both extraordinary and incredible were necessary to contain them. They never existed, they were never held, there were no records at all relating to them after they went MIA following combat with US forces or intelligence Agents. They were never acknowledged, they were never seen, no one knew of them.

Black trucks driven around the country were never questioned because a thousand trucks were seen every day across the USA going everywhere, but only certain very particular ones had a two man Navy SEAL driver and co-driver armed to the teeth in the cab, seated in an armoured truck cab tested against anything short of heavy tank cannon fire with a heavy arsenal of everything from knives to automatic rifles to high explosives concealed all about.

The huge trailer of the eighteen wheeler truck was designed the same way, but was heavily reinforced, padded and soundproofed as well as being triple security locked from both inside and out. A six-man team was always on duty inside with instant access to an arsenal even more formidable than the drivers, two of the IID Agents always wearing full state-of-the-art body armour and automatic weapons, one loaded with armour piercing the other with explosive rounds, the other four men simply always being armed. Every one of them was an expert marksman and had significant Special Forces training and experience, all of them were chosen for their ability to do whatever was necessary to get the job done. They were all replaced every night.

The front half of the trailer was a single glass-walled cell set in the middle of the floor, too small for any occupant to sit down, let alone lie down in, forcing them to remain standing at all times. Bright, warm lights were centred on the cell, while shades and soft fluorescent lights went around the sides, where the IID Agents sat in hard, comfortable chairs with Laptops attached, simply staring at the individual at all times when an interrogation was not taking place. Lockers for all six men stood on both sides evenly split, while a small toilet sat at the very front of the trailer in a small cubicle which the Agents used occasionally. At the rear of the trailer chains were set on the floor and walls in a manner which would allow anyone of any height to be shackled hands and feet spread-eagled, with sharp metal gags and chest wraps optional. A variety of other implements to aid in any interrogation were also supplied.

However, since the rear of the trailer was well padded as well as secured, the IID Agents had decided to be more direct in their questioning of the stubborn individual today. So far they'd made little progress, as usual. Despite the blood smeared on walls and floor and occasional bloodied knuckle, however, they had elected to continue. They were sure they were learning just what to do now to be effective against the suspect, after a long-for them-period of trial and error.

The tall, statuesque dark-skinned woman currently lying on the floor semiconscious was now only known as the "Suspect", but her name had once been Anna Espinoza. With her once lush, long black hair forcibly cut to above her shoulders, her always comfortable, elegant and expensive clothes torn away and destroyed, her body and mind abused just about every way the human mind could conceive of and some that it couldn't in the past two months, she was as close to cracking, inside and out, as she'd ever been.

The dark-blue prisoner suit was designed for a man, not a woman of anything approaching her physique, which made it very tight and uncomfortable. It also made it easy for the men to appreciate everything she had. They'd done more than that twice now, she had the wet blood surrounding her nose and mouth, the deep-bitten lower lip and bruised ribs to remind her. It had taken her very little time to discover that the IID Agents interrogating her could and would do absolutely anything if they thought it would improve their chances of getting what they wanted from her. Bruised, bitten breasts, lips and legs reminded her of that.

Chained hand and foot, no food for three days, only just enough water to keep her from becoming so dehydrated that she became either disorientated or started hallucinating as her body and mind failed. Expert punches, kicks and every other kind of blow delivered constantly at any time in every way, placed perfectly so they hurt as much as possible but never even broke a bone, let alone knocked her unconscious. She was always fully aware and certain of what was happening, what was being done to her, unless they wanted a break, when they beat her so badly that she could barely even breathe before they finished.

Her constitution was solid as granite, her body as strong and tough as exercise and diet could make it. Her will was as strong as that of anyone she knew, her pain tolerance being one of the highest even K-Directorate had ever recorded. She could give and take with the experts-and had-but that just meant one thing in the end: she knew her limits, limits she was hitting the very extreme extent of now.

She was tough, but not one of these people considered her even a human being. They were going to kill her, but they'd get everything she knew first, it was a fact she'd had to recognise as time went on. She didn't stand a chance in any Hell. It didn't mean that she couldn't extract the maximum amount of bloodied satisfaction from forcing them to drive her to Deaths door before she said one word, though. She'd go to her Grave laughing if she managed to hold out that long, even as she lay in a pool of her own blood. _Stupid Americans..._

The whole truck suddenly shuddered for a long moment, then the constant vibration of motion simply ceased. All of the lights went out in a moment, all of the computers a moment later. She barely noticed around swollen eyelids and a throbbing pain that started inside her skull and travelled down her spine to set every single nerve ending on fire, but she'd been a Spy for too many years to miss anything. That was either very good or very bad, the lights were one thing, but the computers had a Backup independent battery in case of emergency that should have survived a lightning strike. That they were down meant something very serious was going on...

"Alright people, suit up, arm up and shoot to kill, you know the drill! Stanley, call in to Langley the second you can rig a channel and tell them were being hit. Richards, watch the suspect. Anyone tries anything, shoot her in the head. Lets move!" snapped out Agent Thomas Andrews, a big man just over six feet tall with muscles that spoke of extensive weightlifting and a shape that spoke of an entire life spent living everything the hard way, nothing about him being soft from his thin face to his almost crabby hands.

Andrews slipped into a Bullet proof vest and had an M-18 locked and loaded, a 9MM pistol ready and loaded with Armour Piercing holstered on his left hip with a combat knife on his right, inside a minute. His speed and skill were thanks to a thirty-five year history of combat that started in Vietnam with the Navy SEALS and was still on going now. In his mid-fifties he was considered one of the most dedicated, professional and simply competent soldiers ever to have served, which often let him in on particularly important "interviews" with exceptionally dangerous subjects. He'd never failed and, no matter what, didn't intend to start now.

"Brooks! Analysis?" snapped Andrews at the team's tech specialist.

"EMP Pulse Bomb, sir, close-range detonation, high-yield, everything we have with a microchip is screwed. We have to get out of here _now_, anyone who can get that can get worse" replied Brooks. It was the last thing he'd ever say.

A brief, brilliant flash of light lit up the outer doors at the rear of the truck. A bright line abruptly encircled the doors entirely-before they simply fell completely clear of the truck to the concrete road with a dull thump. Incendiaries, Anna automatically noted. A darkly dressed figure stepped into the light in the new hole even as the smoke cleared, someone Anna instantly recognised as her senses started to return. The sight almost made her heart stop.

_...Talia..._

If she could have spoken, Anna would have advised all of the men there to commit Suicide fast. Anything was better than having that bitch happen to you, but none of them knew that. None of them knew _her_.

Andrews raised his M-18 and started to shout-a spinning knife tore his throat out all the way to the spine, his throat suddenly coating the front of his grey-black uniform as he fell to his knees in terror, blood drenching his entire chest. Richards went to shoot Anna and sprouted twin Shuriken, one in each eye, before he could pull the trigger. Stanley went to hurl a knife and lost a hand to a flickering knife before he'd even registered the movement. He didn't seem to understand that he should have screamed as he watched blood spurt from his wrist with a dumbfounded expression.

Brooks charged her, trying to get outside by simply muscling her out of the way. She didn't even seem to move, but her fingers drifted across his throat and he collapsed, rolling like a log to the road outside. The last two men went hand-to-hand, she killed the first with a single punch over the heart which snapped a rib straight into his heart, killing him instantly, before going to work on the second one. In the space of thirty seconds she broke every bone in his body, she went on to dislocate every joint, twist every segment so that veins and arteries along with other soft tissue ruptured part by part... The man finally drowned in his own blood as it dribbled out of his slack mouth, his eyes full of madness.

Only then did Talia turn and look straight at her. Anna had never wanted to meet those impossible eyes again, only now she had no choice. An old saying of Talia's floated through her mind...

"_Everyone has it backwards. Dreams are what keep us alive, nightmares are our reality_".

That seemed far too appropriate here, somehow. If she'd ever believed in God, she'd have said a silent Prayer that very moment. Not that it would have made any difference at all.

Stanley suddenly started screaming, then stopped with an awful gargle. His eyes glazed and he collapsed like a Marionette with its strings cut. Judging by the amount of blood lost he'd gone into shock at the very least, possibly had a heart attack from sheer system shock. Knowing Talia he'd already been dead when she turned to look at her, there was no one like her for not making mistakes.

Watching Talia fight, no matter how briefly, was always an education in what you could one day imagine doing. She didn't fight so much as breathe. Her physical grace, agility and reflexes couldn't be measured, hand-eye coordination was off the charts, she could run all day and fight all night, bench-press three times her weight, learn new styles and skills just by watching people do anything she didn't know. Her focus and concentration levels were only just the right side of insanity, when she fought she stopped being flawed, maybe even human, became as much a weapon as anything she wielded. To call her simply "capable" at what she did was an insult to perfection...

There was almost something preternatural about her in the flesh, Anna had always thought, as though she wasn't quite a thing of this Earth but part of something else. Darkness ran around the woman in a taste of delicious danger and the risk of pain in a way that could never be understood, unless you stepped into her unearthly presence and met those fabulous eyes. She'd never quite been able to pin down what it was, but Talia had always just had to look at her to put something far worse than just fear in her guts every single time...

Talia walked over to her, squatted down, produced a lock pick and worked on the leg cuffs a moment, then the arms. It took her less than a minute to spring both, despite the specialist locks, then she grabbed the still-woozy Anna and hauled her to her feet.

"Time to go, Widow" said Talia, slinging Anna's arm around her neck before half-carrying, half-dragging the stumbling Anna to the door, where they jumped out. A white van was waiting by the side of the road. Talia dragged her to it and inside, slammed shut the side door before snapping "GO!" at a driver. The driver responded by flooring it so hard that she felt rubber burn against tarmac before the van leapt forwards, did a sharp, skidding 180-degree turn and accelerated down the strangely empty road. Nothing to be seen or heard on what had to be a medium sized road in America? Odd. But, then-

The truck exploded less than two hundreds yards away from them, the force of the blast slewing the van sideways before it straightened sharply and kept accelerating. The white flash of detonation was followed by a massive roar of sound that echoed across the landscape for long seconds before dying away, even while red flames leapt up to claw at the sky, trailed by thick black smoke even as chunks of debris and wreckage fell half a mile away from the destroyed truck.

Talia flipped her Mobile open and hit the Speed Dial. It was answered before the first ring.

"Julia? It's me. It's done, you can tell Selene to proceed. Good, goodbye" said Talia, before snapping her phone off and turning to look at Anna again. A frown briefly creased that flawless face, even as Anna finally made out the drivers identity. Cole, Talia's shadow and apparent slave, a man who could and would do anything at all if Talia asked him too.

"You know, Anna" began Talia, pulling a pack of ice out of a First-Aid box and handing it over, to Anna's relief as she pressed it against her battered face. "You have looked better..."

_LA General Hospital_

"Nadia, you're starting to scare me. Will you please tell me why you still can't answer me?" said Sydney, starting to get honestly worried at the frozen expression of shock on her sisters face. She hadn't known Nadia that long, but she was quite sure that her sister wasn't the type to lock up like this without good reason-even though her sudden awakening was certainly odd. More to the point, so was the total lack of pain from her injuries-it suddenly clicked just what had Nadia in such a state. She _wasn't_ injured, not even aches and pain.

Any number of thoughts shot through her mind, but only one thing became clear, the only thing it could be. _Rambaldi_. Old bastard, what and who else could it be?

Nadia's mobile went off abruptly, snapping her out of her paralysis as she put the phone to her ear. "Yes?" she answered, quickly.

"_Its me. Is Jack with you?_" came her fathers voice, a tone of concern in his voice she could easily detect. Not unreasonably, since Jack Bristow was nothing if not efficient. If he said he was going to be somewhere or do something, that was exactly what would happen. For her father, APO's Director, to be calling her directly meant that he couldn't reach Jack himself. That was _very_ odd.

"No. Have you tried Vaughn? He might have heard from him" replied Nadia.

"_Not possible. Vaughn is currently undergoing a full physical examination including X-Rays and is out of communication entirely for a minimum of ten minutes. I need you to check with Hospital Security and Vaughn in person to see if they have any idea of his location. What is Sydney's status?_" replied her father.

"I...she is healed, fit and ready to move. I cannot explain how" said Nadia, still trying to take in Sydney's sudden good health. Sydney actually looked as good as she ever had, a picture of glowing health and vitality...

"_She's-? Never mind, I want her cleared by a Surgeon before she returns to duty, I'll add this to our list of enquiries to be pursued. I'm sending Dixon to you to help, call_ _me if you need anything. I have to go, now_" said her father, then he hung up.

Nadia glanced at the Doctor examining Sydney, who could do nothing but step away and hold up his hands in a helpless shrug. " Sydney is completely healthy and fit. I can't explain it, really, sorry. I'd like to run a full battery of tests on miss Bristow to examine this from every angle, to see if this can be in any way explained by science, but I have a strong suspicion I'm not going to get the chance. Am I wrong?" he asked.

"No, I'm discharging myself now if I'm in a fit state to do so. Could you leave us alone, please? Thanks. Nadia, who was that and what's going on?" said Sydney, rising to her bare feet on cool carpeted floor as she glanced around for clothes.

"My father, he was calling about Jack, it seems no one can reach him or find him. Dixon will be here soon to supply Backup as necessary. Try in the cupboard by the bed" replied Nadia, well aware Sydney's own ruined clothes had been taken by CIA Forensics teams.

"Thanks" said Sydney, discovering a dark-blue tracksuit top and leggings, a loose t-shirt and trainers all neatly piled together. "Now: what do you mean no one can reach or find my father?" she asked, trying and failing not to sound concerned. After all, if there was anyone she and Nadia knew who could take care of themselves no matter what, where and when, it was the ever resourceful, ruthless senior Bristow. If something had happened to him... No, she couldn't let herself think about that. He'd be fine, he'd probably just had to go check on something and not had time to inform anyone else due to its importance. That thought reminded her of something else, or rather someone else.

"Where's Vaughn, anyway? How is he?" Sydney asked, recalling that he had taken at least as much of a beating over this as she had, if not more.

"Upstairs, getting a full workup done just in case. He was badly injured but suffered nothing life-threatening, we're waiting for a call to say we can see him. How do you feel?" replied Nadia, raising a curious eyebrow.

Sydney paused before answering as she got dressed, even though the only real answer was a very simple one. "You know what? I feel fine, absolutely fine. Weird, really" she said, shaking her head slowly...

"Very. Lets just hope it doesn't come with a price, whatever it was did this. Lets go and see Vaughn, Jack might meet us on the way" said Nadia, without much hope evident in her voice. Dressed now, Sydney mock-punched her sister in the arm at the comment.

"I'll find out and it's my dad, in that order. He'll show up, he always does. Now, shall we go? I'm starting to feel odd being trapped in this place with nothing wrong with me" said Sydney, slinging an arm around her sisters shoulders and giving her a slight squeeze. Nadia smiled at that, but they kept a professional distance as they walked out and towards the Hospital Security Station.

LA International Airport

The slim, elegant woman walked off of the airplane, down the ramp and into the airport proper without raising more than an eyebrow as her easy beauty caught the attention of passers by. Moving with a long-legged easy stride, a willowy, fluid grace making her almost seem to shift from place to place rather than walk, her mere presence made people take notice. Her creamy, perfect skin and compact, curved body kept the eye.

With long chestnut hair falling in curled ringlets halfway down her back and intelligent eyes of the same colour gleaming in a fine-featured face, red lips glowing against her skin, skin which was almost pale despite her tan, she would have stood out in any crowd if someone stared at her face. Wearing a worn white t-shirt, black jeans, white trainers and a dark-brown jacket, a small brown carry-all slung over one shoulder, she didn't stand out in any company. A curious mixture of exceptional and average, she somehow managed to be just plain enough to fail to attract any real attention unless she wanted to.

That was one of the main reasons she was so glad to see the face of the woman she'd been told to meet here, waiting for her in the airports arrival lounge with two big casually dressed "suits" trying and failing not to stick out in the background. Bodyguards, unquestionably, either CIA or Secret Service. She headed directly towards the middle-aged blonde woman and shook the out held hand without hesitation.

"Pamela Landy, CIA Deputy Director, in charge of Special Projects and Operations. Pleased to meet you, Ms. Aquila?" said Landy, looking carefully and closely at the dark-haired younger woman. The description and picture transmitted were perfect matches, the time and place were precisely right, the electronic countermeasures were in play, but if the woman didn't give the correct reply...

"Katya Antonius Aquila, Kate Aquila to my friends, MI6 senior Agent for Special Operations. Pleased to meet you, Ms. Landy, always a pleasure to meet women of authority in this business" replied Kate Aquila, rolling her right hand and arm to reveal on her forearm, as the sleeve of her jacket rode up her arm, a small black rose tattoo weeping tears of red blood from both thorns and petals. "I hear that very interesting things can be seen and heard in LA today and in the near future, especially when you know where to look" Kate continued, her "choice" of words immediately removing any trace of doubt from Landy's mind.

"All too true...Kate. Welcome to LA, can I offer you a ride? I have a feeling you have a great deal to do in a short time and could use some pointers as to the local geography" said Landy, nodding to the exit, where an official limo waited with blacked out windows in flagrant violation of traffic laws where the airport was concerned.

Some people would have been concerned at the possibility of a senior Deputy Director of the CIA being spotted meeting with an Agent from MI6 who specialised in doing the hardest, nastiest dirty work to be found anywhere who was almost infamous for her Undercover, Wetwork and-never discussed, or even mentioned-Assassination missions, but Landy wasn't. Kate didn't make those kinds of mistakes, a simple fact everything the woman's career and history confirmed for anyone who checked. More to the point, this meeting was taking place so far out in the cold that even her Bodyguards thought she was meeting a Contact and would never be disabused of that impression. Chase, Landy and the APO team were the only people in North America who knew about the Task Force being set up to hunt down the Assassin once and for all, only the Director of MI6 and Kate knew in Britain about the true reason for her "inter-Agency cooperation" mission.

There were no leaks, everything was taking place so far out in the cold to keep it off of and out of every record that Landy sometime thought she could feel the ice nipping at her ageing bones as she started up the next blizzard-ruled mountain. Still, if they could get Bourne, one way or another, this would all have been worth it. Damn Abbot, Conklin, Treadstone and everything connected to them, damn the Monk and his Byzantine plans and plays to secure America and its influence in the world.

Between the lot of them, she had a trail of death leading all the way from the 1930's to the present right through the CIA Archives to deal with once and for all. She just hoped the closure of stopping the final, last ever Jason Bourne would be a big step in the right direction. Treadstone would then never have existed again, so she could get onto dealing with nightmares like Medusa, and Project Intrepid...

"Certainly. I don't suppose you have any ten-year-old red wine available, do you? After long plane flights with civilians I always need a drink" said Kate, looking hopefully at Landy. Landy just smiled as she led Kate outside.

"Let me make a call and I'll have some waiting for us at the "Embassy", Kate" she replied...

APO Headquarters

"The package has arrived and is in transport" reported Weiss, who had returned to headquarters after finishing his clean-up job with Jack and been assigned Dixon's position after Dixon was dispatched to the Hospital to help Sydney and Nadia locate Jack. Constant monitoring of every communication channel sifted by computer for key words and phrases was a job which took a great deal of concentration and patience to do right. He had plenty of the former, not so much of the latter-and it was beginning to show as he was having trouble sitting still. He could do it, regardless, but he wanted to be out there doing something, tracking down whoever was doing this and shut them down the hard way, seeing how Vaughn was doing, _something_...

"Thank you, Agent Weiss. Marshall, anything yet?" asked Sloane, glancing at Marshall as he sat amidst his banks of computers with an expression that made him look like he was in Heaven. Of course, to a man with the skills and "geeky" mindset of Marshall, their resident computer and tech super-genius with social issues, that position _was_ paradise Sloane couldn't help but think.

"Uh, Mr Sloane...?" Marshall replied slowly, uncharacteristically nervous given that he was by no means in a stressful situation. "I, um, think that you should take a look at this" he continued, tapping a few buttons to send whatever it was he'd found to Sloane's desktop computer.

Sloane frowned as he deactivated the screensaver and booted up the main screen fully, not sure what to expect that Marshall couldn't simply tell him about. The moment he saw the image and words on the screen, however, it took serious effort not to verbally rip Marshall's head off for failing to even warn him of this. He picked up his desk phone and tapped in a number fast. Chase, who had barely left the APO office five minutes ago after dealing with him and the situation to her satisfaction at some length, needed to hear this from him directly. More to the point, he needed to find out just how this could have happened to Jack of all people, before Chase finally lost her temper and put people she felt she could actually rely on in a position to resolve the situation.

This had not been a good day so far, and it looked like it was only going to get worse.

LA General Hospital

"No, no one has been to visit or placed a call or left a message for Mr. Vaughn at any point since he arrived here. Yes, I would know, any message of any sort would have to go through me. No, I won't let you check our records to confirm that. There's no need, yes seriously. No, you can't talk to him yet, I haven't finished stitching his hand up and in any case he's still recovering from a General Anaesthetic since we had to put him under to properly deal with the bullet wound in his shoulder. Now, have I missed anything or can I go back to work?" asked the Consultant, a middle-aged brown haired man with slate-grey sharp eyes, who clearly didn't appreciate being called out while treating a badly injured patient just to answer the questions of two women he didn't know who were associated with his patient.

If Nadia and Sydney hadn't been using the Cover that they were agents of the company Vaughn "worked" for sent to ascertain his condition by their superiors they both knew they wouldn't have even gotten this far. That didn't stop Sydney wanting to grab and shake him until his teeth rattled in his head and answers they could use fell out. Vaughn was the love of her life and her best friend all rolled into one, the one person who wasn't family who meant _everything_ to her. If she lost him she might as well have her heart cut out of her chest, she wouldn't need it any longer...

"No thank you, but please call us as soon as he recovers enough to talk" said Sydney, almost through gritted teeth, before she turned and strode away at such speed that the shorter Nadia had to hurry just to keep up. She was frustrated and angry, at a situation out of her control and the people causing it, not anyone in particular since she didn't know who they were, yet, but she couldn't do anything to relieve the pressure and her sense of futility was driving her mad. She was used to getting out there, doing things and solving problems, routinely accomplishing the impossible on the way as a matter of course. Being stuck here, like this, without even her father to talk her through the options as he always did, so calmly and rationally that it calmed even her down...

Despite Nadia's best efforts, she was rapidly reaching the stage where she was going to have to punch something or someone, hard. Yet again, as usual, with nothing easily available to use she was going to have to swallow her feelings down and grit her teeth with a perfect smile. Her sisters hand on her arm abruptly pulled her out of her spiralling sense of frustration and anger, which she would think only a little later was perfect timing. The benefit of hindsight, again.

Nadia's phone rang suddenly, before she could speak. She pulled it out and snapped it on, but the person speaking gave her an odd message judging by the expression on her face. She paused to allow something to download onto her phones screen, before her eyes opened wide and her mouth hung so far open Sydney considered telling her to watch the floor. "Yes, I understand. I'll tell her" said Nadia, before turning to look at Sydney as she shut off the speech function. She just stood there for several long moments, then sighed and looked her sister in the eyes.

"Sydney, I'm sorry, but there is no easy way to say this. You need to see what Marshall sent me" she said, slowly, reluctantly, before handing Sydney her phone. Feeling almost disturbed, Sydney took a good look at the image-and her face lost all colour as she took it in.

It was a simple website, with only two images on it, running film being repeated over and over. In the first part, her father, bound and gagged, was being loaded into a coffin-like box, clearly unconscious, before he was sealed inside. It was impossible to make out the boxes transport markings and anything distinguishing except its shape, but she automatically assumed that Marshall could help with that and resolved to head straight back to APO after this to help him.

In the second, the same box was loaded aboard a huge transporter plane, again with the planes markings and anything distinguishing apart from its shape obscured. She didn't know the exact type, but she recognised the design. An inter-continental mass transport, the kind that could and would fly halfway around the world once it took off. The air movement in the film made it quite clear that the planes engines were already starting to turn over... In twenty-four hours, her father could have been sent or taken anywhere on Earth and have been left at the mercy of anyone at all.

Sydney's self-control was remarkable under any circumstances, which was fortunate in the extreme in this particular case. No matter what their relationship, no matter who or what he'd been to her over almost thirty-two years of life when he'd been at best a distant figure she sometimes saw and more rarely spoke to, she'd always known one thing absolutely: Jack Bristow, her father, was always there for her when she needed him, even when he physically wasn't.

He was the bedrock, the dense, solid foundation stone her entire life revolved around, the way it had HAD to be after her mothers "death" all those years ago. She was her father's daughter, no matter how much of her mother was in her, even her parents privately, silently accepted that, she knew that in every way which counted. He'd always been there for her, but this one time she hadn't been there for him and, well, what had happened... God, she couldn't do this. He couldn't be gone just like that... She couldn't do what she wanted to do and collapse to her knees against a wall in private right this moment, she couldn't-

"Sydney!" called a man's deep voice, cutting through the rising wave of despair in her mind like a knife through butter. That was just what she needed, just as Marcus Dixon was exactly the person she needed, the only other person in her life she'd ever known who'd been there for and with her every step of the way. She could go to him with and about anything, even this...

"Sydney, Nadia, sorry for the interruption and I am really, really sorry to tell you this, but Jacks been abducted. Someone got the jump on him right outside the hospital and took off with him in the passenger seat of his own car, it was all caught on the hospital CCTV. I'm getting a hook-up with Marshall going so he can break down the footage and organising Agents to search the car park and surrounding area, the LAPD are being alerted to look for Jack's car. I could use some help-" Dixon said, but Nadia quickly shook her head even as Sydney held up the phone to display the images. Dixon simply stopped and stared.

"Were already too late, Marcus" said Sydney slowly, reluctantly. "But that just means we'll have to work harder to catch up and search everywhere until we do. Lets go" she added, her mind clearing as the tasks and job ahead of her became clear in her mind. It helped, a lot, not that she couldn't multi-task but she always, always worked better with a clear sense of purpose and definite objective... She strode away down the corridor fast even as she began to work through the issues in her mind.

As Nadia and Dixon moved off after her, they shared a glance before Dixon nodded. "Jack will be alright, Nadia, he's the toughest man I've ever met and I don't know anyone more resourceful or capable. He'll survive this just to show us he's still the best, whatever "this" is" said Dixon, with a trace of a smile.

"I hope so, Marcus, I really do, for Sydney's sake. After everything she's lost already, I don't know what would happen to her if she lost him. She may have known you longer, but she's my sister and I know what's happening in her mind. She will loose it if she has to take on much more without time to really heal" replied Nadia, both of them speaking quietly so that the sharp-eared Sydney wouldn't overhear them.

"I know, which is why I'm very glad she has you now. If something does happen to Jack, with him gone you'll really be the only family she has left, the only thing holding her here to us. She and Vaughn haven't been the same since she came back from the dead, insane as that sounds, what happened with Lauren Reed drove her to the edge and what's happened with her mother has her at her extremes of ability to suffer and keep functioning as a human being, let alone an Agent" said Dixon, before pausing and giving Nadia a sharp look.

"Let me be clear: I've seen Sydney at her worst after the murder of her Fiancée Danny Hecht by SD-6, at her best in the field on any number of missions for over six years and at every point in between. I've known her father for over fifteen years, he recruited me into SD-6 and then the CIA. I've met Irina Derevko and seen what she is to Sydney and to Jack, you haven't. You may understand her better than me, but I know her better than you.

She can take almost anything and survive worse than you or I can imagine, that is simple fact, but she is not invulnerable and will, in the end, break. She's human, which makes her flawed, which means she has weaknesses and those weaknesses are us, the people she cares for. Should any of us get really badly hurt, or killed, or worse than either of those? That is what will break her, mark my words. Her father and you are the main obstacles left that stop her from thinking that. Be here for her, help her and let her work. It's the best you can do now, believe me" said Dixon, as he and Nadia strode along together.

"You know, Marcus, I really should just sit down and talk to you more often. You make it all make sense..." replied Nadia, shaking her head slowly.

_Location unknown_

Jason Bourne lowered the digital camera and deactivated it, before wiping it down and tossing it in a garbage container. It had a satellite uplink built in which allowed him access to the Internet, an important part of his plan given the way the CIA worked and, more importantly, a covert section like APO with limited manpower.

They'd track down the camera by its electronic signature if the power source lasted long enough, which he was sure it would if Marshall's skills were as remarkable as his record stated. But that would only lead them to the airfield, not the plane, which would eventually lead them right out of the country. Which would give him the time he needed to work, assuming they valued Jack Bristow as much as he understood they did.

He really would have to thank the old man properly if he made it out of this alive, without the intel he'd had supplied he really couldn't have done all of this. He was almost there now, just eight names left. Well, seven really, he wasn't quite done for today yet...

/End of Chapter 5. All reviews welcomed/.


	7. Chapter 7

For all disclaimers: See Part 1.

All Reviews welcomed.

**The Last Day**

_Five days ago, abandoned industrial complex 50 miles east of LA_

**Life ends when the truth begins.**

_**-Talia**_

Anna Espinosa just stood still and let the warm, soothing water rushing over and around every part of her body do so for longer than she wanted to think about. Need meant want, want meant weakness, weakness could get you killed...but right now she didn't care.

Every single part of her body hurt, every bone ached abominably, she had a headache the size of Castro's ego kicking at the inside of her skull and felt as though she hadn't eaten all year. Feeling just simple warm water running over her smooth skin with a gentle lovers touch, rushing through her hair-she'd already washed her hair twice before she felt halfway clean-cleaning out every filthy crevice of her body... She was a good Communist, even if she'd never honestly believed in the creed except when it had benefited her. But this, this felt like Heaven.

"Heaven..." she whispered, softly. There, she'd said it. But what did it mean? Nothing. The only things which had any meaning affected you while you were still alive. She really was exhausted, she'd never have even begun to try to think through philosophical arguments regarding "what came next" under ordinary circumstances.

She glanced at the back of her right hand, where the tattoo of the Rambaldi Eye marking her as a Knight of Rambaldi was drawn with dark black ink. Then again, what did she believe in, really? If she was so sure about the creations, designs and prophecies of Milo Rambaldi, a man 500 years dead who had designed, just to begin with, weapons and crafted concepts that were futuristic even now? She'd met the Chosen One of Rambaldi and, in reality, had considerable respect for the woman's skills and abilities, not to mention her potential. If she was willing to get rid of that useless sense of morality she still hung onto like it could save her from something terrible yet undefined, well, she could _really_ amount to something...

Of course, she'd proven she was nowhere near as "straight-up" as the entire CIA thought she was when she'd first run into Anna in Berlin after her Fiancé's execution by SD-6. Embittered, angry at everyone and everything, almost completely out of control, mad as Hell and wanting to lash out at anything she could really get her teeth into, so hurt inside she was ready to kill at little provocation...

It remained the one and only time Sydney and she had worked as a team to get the job done, a fact nobody else knew, killing, torturing, beating, hacking, screwing and applying extreme pressure wherever necessary on their way through the Berlin underworld however they had to. All to reach Erich Kessler, an Arms Dealer they were both after to stop a deal going through. The same deal for the two of them, by some bizarre coincidence. Anna had shot him in the head while Sydney went through his files after an interrogation, they'd found and destroyed the weapon, case closed, they'd gone their separate ways-the next day. That night...? Anna would never have expected that as a way of saying goodbye...

Realising that Talia would drag her to the meeting naked if she took too long, Anna shut off the water with some reluctance, stepped outside and towelled herself down before checking the clothes she'd been given. White shirt, loose black jeans, white trainers, all comfortable and a good fit. Talia's doing, she didn't doubt. She put on her underwear, threw away the prison clothes with a sense of great satisfaction and dressed properly for the first time in months. Feeling good, soft clothes against her tingling-clean skin was so relaxing, so pleasurably normal after her time of torment and torture, that she had to resist the urge to actually purr. She could arrange luxuries and anything else she needed or wanted later, the CIA had no chance of finding every stash she had hidden around the world so she just had to make a call.

Talia, dressed the same as before, was waiting outside the shower room. Without a word she started off to the main work area, where Cole waited with a bored expression, dressed in one of his trademark black suits while lying full out on a tabletop, evidently waiting for her. The old factory complex wasn't large, with brick walls, metal roof and small windows that let in about enough light. Two floors and a cellar in depth, wide enough for a big truck to drive through. Dust-covered tables and chairs formed of metal and wood lay around, some toppled some upright, while a concrete floor was covered in wood chippings, metal shavings and patches of paint.

The building was sound, secluded and nowhere near any habitation of any sort, even local law enforcement never drove past just to check everything out, or so Talia had told her and she had no reason to doubt. A computer was set up on one of the desks, a phone had been attached to it as well as a scanner and printer, three chairs being set around the table it was set on. Talia picked up the phone and tapped in a number before setting it to Speakerphone, then sitting down as Cole leisurely unfolded himself and easily rolled into another seat as Anna sat.

Glancing at Talia again, Anna realised that she still couldn't decide whether or not she envied Sydney the taste and feel of that impossible form, figure and woman, the intimacy of the mind they'd shared. Talia tended to have that effect, though, on everyone she met, so she was almost certainly better off not knowing. She couldn't help wondering if Sydney had ever mentioned Berlin to the lethal beauty, though, no one knew just how close they'd become before "Julia's" disappearance...

The phone was answered after two rings. "_Yes?_" came the reply, as the speaker had obviously been expecting the call. Talia smiled, Anna had no idea who they were talking too and that was the way it was going to stay.

"Julia, this is Talia calling on Selene's behalf since she is occupied on the dark side. Do you know why I'm calling?" began Talia, sure that Selene would have found a way to convey such important information before now.

"_Of course, the Evolution Cadre assault, the ongoing situation with your "Missing Link" and the progress of the HUNTSMAN Task Force. I'll start by stating that your insertion has gone flawlessly so far, even Cole hasn't been identified yet despite being caught on CCTV in that LA shootout with the EC. Selene is in position and, given the calls I've been getting from the CIA and Homeland Security, you've Retrieved Anna. What do you need to know?_" replied Julia.

"To begin with, has there been any progress identifying the attackers in LA? Anything leading to the Cadre could eventually lead back to us through Cairo. As well as that, give us an update on...Sydney Bristow...and APO's status, then refer to Huntsman. What do you have?" asked Talia.

"_The attackers leader has been identified as Jacques Fremarche, former French Foreign Legion and professional Mercenary for the last ten years, but full forensic confirmation is still waiting. No one has any reason to tie him to the Cadre yet. The rest were foot soldiers, grunts and nothings, dedicated muscle with no brains there isn't much left of, they won't get anything from them._

_Sydney was seriously injured in the battle before Cole rescued her and was hospitalised in a Coma, but made a miracle recovery and is now racing around trying to find any traces of her father, which ties into HUNTSMAN. Jason Bourne has kidnapped Jack Bristow and sent him as cargo on a plane to nobody knows where, which puts a real dent in any attempts to track Bourne down since Jack knew him as well as just about anyone alive. He's killing people on a list, everyone who used to work for the Treadstone Project, but no one knows how or where he got the list nor why he's doing this_" said Julia, clearly running through information her employers had managed to gather or run down as asked.

She was sharing Top Secret information with professional Terrorists and Assassins without hesitation because Selene had told her to, in the same way she'd calmly shoot someone who'd just saved her life in the back of the head with a smile if Selene told her to. Talia knew better than anyone just what Selene and Julia had gone through that had led to Selene having such a hold over Julia-and it was a demented, deranged Holocaust lit hideous nightmare that she wouldn't have wished on even Carlos the Jackal at his worst. It was a turn for the worse in the same sense that you thought a Terminal illness meant all of your troubles were over because you were going to die.

Nothing was further from the truth. No one had any idea just how much they really had to loose until they'd spent time trapped on the _real_ road to Hell, the one she'd been walking since she'd been twenty-one years old.

"The Raven. Who else do we know who could "conjure up" a miracle like that? Interesting source Selene has, by the way?" said Anna. The question was obvious, but Talia ignored it. She and Selene had an understanding, Anna Espinosa was tolerated out of respect for her talent. Julia Thorne was the only one she, Selene, Cole and Anna had _all_ gotten on with, a fact she suspected Anna sometimes wanted everyone to forget. She decided to answer Anna's clearly rhetorical first question just to irritate her.

"Rambaldi, MediGen _Miracle_ Flesh, God and the Devil. Lets not go into lists, though, I think your right. We can use the Jack Bristow situation, so lets think: who doesn't she know here who could play the part of a sympathetic face she might talk to while others search for her?" asked Talia, with a sardonic smirk before continuing.

"Me".

_The Embassy (CIA Safe House) LA_

**Tragedy is the truth of man.**

_**-Selene**_

Landy led Kate into the "Embassy" at a brisk pace, a nondescript two storey grey-brick building with few windows and walls which became surprisingly solid from the inside. The windows were bulletproof glass which was also shatterproof, to prevent the glass being used as a weapon against any defenders on the inside.

Countermeasures directed against exterior walls and windows made it impossible for electronic surveillance to function, while the concealed banks of computers, labs and equipment storage rooms made the secure interior almost a bunker rather than a Safe House. A variety of weapons and even explosives were available, just in case, but the building came with its own five-man security force of veteran Special Forces personnel, men who could call in fifty more with thirty seconds notice.

In the centre of the building was a big meeting room, with a long table capable of seating twelve surrounded by that number of swivel chairs with mounted Laptops in front of each on the table. The only person already present was a middle-aged man who Kate estimated was in his mid fifties, a long and lean six-footer with hard, compact muscle not softened by age. Smoothly combed black hair was going slate-grey with advancing years, while a sharp face that she might almost consider handsome was developing distinct lines near the eyelids and edges of the mouth especially. In a grey suit, light blue shirt and black shoes he wouldn't have stood out, but for one thing-his presence, the shock of meeting his eyes for the first time was like a slap in the face, his ice-cool grey eyes meeting her oak-browns like a bucket of cold water thrown in the face. To what she could tell was his surprise, she held and took on his gaze for long seconds until the slightest frown crossed his face. Then he nodded and rose to meet her, with unusual grace for a man of his age.

"Kate Aquila, meet Harmon Gibbs, FBI Counter-Terrorist Unit Director and the best man hunter the Bureau has ever had. Harmon Gibbs, meet Kate Aquila, MI6, Special Operations with their "101 Brigade". You know what that means, I presume?" said Landy, glancing at Gibbs.

"Of course. Pleased to meet you, Ms. Aquila, Joseph Rowntree speaks very, very highly of you. I'd have recruited you myself, but..." said Gibbs, letting his sentence trail off to see if Kate would pick it up.

"But Joe would have come over here and pulled all your teeth in the night without your knowledge before leaving a note which said "Hands off?" Yes, the Bulldog has that effect on people, when they actually get to meet him rather than one of his "Clones" that is. If he spoke of me he likes you, which is a very good start. You can call me Kate, by the way, Harmon" said Kate, taking his hand and shaking it firmly. They judged each other by the strength of the grip and surprised each other again. He was stronger than he looked, but then so was she. This could get interesting...

"Very true, Kate. Pamela, when are the others getting here again?" asked Gibbs, glancing over at the Deputy Director of the CIA as she took a seat at the head of the table.

"Right now, actually. Good to see you again too, Harm, still haven't developed any patience at all I see. Or charm. Are you the MI6 Agent?" asked a voice from behind Gibbs, which turned out to belong to another woman.

"Kate, I think you know Julia Hanlon, I know Harm does. She's here in her capacity as Director of Counter Terrorism for the NSA. To answer your question, the official CIA representative will be here shortly, he's currently dealing with events which have to be handled before he can commit. Feel free to mingle before he does" said Landy, sipping at the glass of water laid in front of her on the table.

Kate turned to take a better look at Julia Hanlon-not that she needed to. Five nine tall, perfectly proportioned with definite curves in all of the right places on her slender form, toned muscle easily evident, Hanlon was a fine-featured beauty of a woman. She had curly black hair falling to her waist, ocean-blue eyes, full red lips and creamy tanned skin, all marking her as something unusual in the often-shadowed world of politically charged manoeuvring someone in her position had to inhabit. She looked as though she actually devoted real time to herself and keeping in shape-the reasons for which, of course, Kate Aquila would have no real idea about...

Dressed in a long black dress which was slit up one side for ease of movement, which clung to her figure while not taking away from the almost severe all-business expression on her face and look in her eyes, Kate didn't need to think about it to know that a knife was hidden in a sheath on an inner thigh under the dress. Julia Hanlon, now forty, had learnt long ago never to be taken by surprise-ever. Her flat black shoes were functional, clearly designed for running if necessary, too.

"Hello, Julia, its been a while..." said Kate, her hand only touching the fingertips of Hanlon's hand but still almost sparking with electricity. That fact was a simple one, after what had gone on between them in Bosnia there would _always_ be that spark between them, that bond. Julia just looked at her and didn't respond, aloud, her eyes speaking volumes...

"I apologise for my late arrival, but I've been dealing with something of a crisis. I hope I haven't missed anything?" asked Arvin Sloane, walking through the main door. The response to his enquiry was abrupt and varied.

Gibbs just sneered at him, Hanlon's expression made it look quite possible she'd had the older man at the other end of a gun barrel at some point in the past and wished she'd taken the shot. Kate just rolled her eyes, she knew his record. He wasn't the first demented homicidal maniac obsessed with the insane and the absurd the CIA had ever brought into the ranks and wouldn't be the last, the Agency was as notorious for taking in anyone and everyone to get the job done as Mossad was for murdering its way to success through mass "Suicides" or whatever else was necessary. The difference with Mossad was that, no matter what, protecting the state of Israel with its actions, no matter the brutality, savagery, harm done or body count, was always the mission. The CIA had so many different Divisions, Departments and Covert sections everyone knew no one person knew everything all of them were doing all of the time.

The CIA covered up even the possibility of such things happening, let alone the facts, but even the Police were well aware that the Agency sold guns to street gangs in the USA that disappeared before they ever reached Evidence Control. MI6 had evidence of dealings with Terrorists, "rogue" States and any number of other sources around the world who were globally-renowned troublemakers at best. Agency policy on this was they at least had some influence and control over the real lunatics if everything went wrong, or at least they could find them with the helpfully distinctive weaponry provided.

The problem with that was it didn't always work, too many times in Kate's opinion, even though MI6 did the same. Right idea, wrong way of going about it, she thought. Especially when adding in rogue elements selling off experimental Top Secret weapons, explosives and even information to the "right" people for a price. Still, they had to try _something_ to get inside of all of the fanatical fringe groups popping up everywhere these days...

"Hello, again, _Mr_ Sloane. No, you haven't missed anything, even though it wouldn't matter if you had and we all know it. Deputy Director Landy was about to brief us on the creation and aims of HUNTSMAN. In fact, I really do think that we should get started now. Deputy Director?" said Gibbs, his voice and tone becoming very formal the moment he spotted Sloane. Clearly, he didn't want to even appear to care about the man, his opinions or anything he might have to contribute beyond the strictly professional. The speed he did it with made Kate suspect there was personal, ugly history between them. Maybe she could ask Gibbs later?

"Yes, we should. Take a seat, everyone, thank you. You all understand that this briefing is entirely behind closed doors and never officially occurred? Very good" began Landy, glancing around as everyone sat. Gibbs and Sloane made a point of not sitting opposite each other, which made Kate hide a smile.

"Everyone here knows that this Task Force is to be set up and dedicated to the sole purpose of both discovering the location of and securing the capture or elimination of former CIA Asset Jason Bourne. You all know who he is, some of what he did and does and, most importantly, why it is important, _critically_ important, that we bring him in and down as soon as possible, by whatever means necessary. The situation has reached the point where extraordinary times and events have declared a need for extraordinary measures to correct an intolerable situation, so this Task Force is being summarily created with Agents from a variety of Agencies to do so" Landy said, before pausing to look at each of them in turn.

"Harmon, its said you could literally find any one man in a city of a million just by taking a good look around you. People say you hunt people by scent and could sneak up on a Bloodhound. You started off tracking people down in Vietnam and have found everyone you ever set your mind to no matter where, when or how you had to work. This is statement of fact with your record. BUT, Jason Bourne is a Chameleon like no one you have ever met. He crosses whole countries without being seen once, he disappears in empty streets, he knows where the people watching him are, he kills people who don't even exist and dangerous ones who do. There is nowhere you can hide, there's nothing you can do, if he wants you dead he can find you and, by the time anyone realises your gone, it will be too late. Remember that when you're working on this, always. No matter how impossible or insane he can and will do it, its only a matter of when, never if" said Landy.

"Julia, you have a record for getting the job done and catching your man that has very few equals, you've helped preserve and even save this country from catastrophe and disaster a number of times. Therefore, continue to think before you act and we will catch this man. Always, always though, a fact I cannot stress you must remember at all times enough, think that its is Jason Bourne _first_. You cannot overestimate him, the only possibility you should plan for is that you can't plan for him. Work towards dealing with the worst case scenario as a basic framework" said Landy.

She took a long look at Kate before she spoke. She knew that Kate had met Bourne in person, but not all of the details, since some information even she couldn't access. Not that what she had seen was necessarily the truth...

"Kate...I know that you've actually met him, but you've never _really_ dealt with anyone like this before. Bourne is as far from a mere simple killer, such as a Hit Man, as you or I am from being Dictator of the USA. This isn't a man who was born and somehow ended up this way, he's a weapon who was built for one purpose: to deliver death, in all its forms, whenever and wherever the CIA required it via Project Treadstone. There's no one he can't kill, nowhere he can't reach, nothing he won't do. There are very few things he can't do inside his area of expertise-and there's no one alive who knows what they are but him since he received the injuries that placed us all in this position five years on. You'll be leading the search on the ground since you at least will recognise him on sight with no difficulty. I just need you to remember this: always expect the impossible with him, absurd as that may sound. Alright?" asked Landy, actually looking concerned as she looked Kate in the eyes.

Kate had a very hard time not laughing aloud, but nothing showed if she didn't want it too. The ageing woman liked her, more fool her. Expect the impossible? Katya Antonius Aquila _was_ the impossible, of all of them she would never need lessons in that. More to the point, she knew someone who really _could_ think their way into Jason Bourne's head if she had to, even now. Even the CIA had never known just how intense that contact had been, no matter how brief. Some people just fitted together...

_...Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn..._

Landy's gaze fell on Sloane at last. It took no effort to see that she had to work hard to keep an expression of open distrust off of her face.

"Mr. Sloane, you have more experience with Project Treadstone and Jason Bourne than anyone else here, in more ways than I can discuss openly even with the individuals gathered here. Therefore, since your team is already active concerning the Subject, while I will be Supervisor for the Task Force you will directly run HUNTSMAN. It is up to you to make assignments, divide duties and place personnel, but I can and will confirm or deny your requests depending on what information is available to me at any given time. I trust we are clear and understood?" asked Landy, staring straight at Sloane.

"Of course. Might I just say that I look forwards to working with such an exceptionally capable group of individuals on this case to catch a Rogue Agent who has been allowed to exist entirely beyond our control for much too long?" replied Sloane, glancing around him. The only person who smiled, a slow, serpentine expression that spoke of later trouble, was Kate.

"Sloane, I need one answer from you before this goes any further. Where is Jack? We both know he should be here at the very least" asked Gibbs, voice calm and controlled, the look in his eyes thunderous. No, he really didn't like this at all, even a neophyte could have seen that. Sloane paused for far too long before answering, though, getting everyone's attention.

"We have reason to believe" Sloane replied slowly, reluctantly, "That Jack Bristow has been abducted by parties unknown following the catastrophic incident in LA earlier today. More importantly...we think Bourne may have himself been the abductor. We simply don't know where Jack is now, to answer your question, Harmon" said Sloane, meeting Gibb's eyes in an invisible battle of wills.

"Wonderful" snapped Gibbs, "So your telling me that the existing Treadstone Project expert still on the CIA payroll with easy access has already been shut down and is very likely dead? Brilliant. You know what that says to me? Bourne knows were out here already and he's going to shut us all down one by one if he has to. Your running HUNTSMAN, Sloane, after this? We might as well assign it to Mickey Mouse!" said Gibbs sharply.

"Please save your puerile insults for failure or disaster, Gibbs, the situation with Jack is extremely complicated so far and strictly need-to-know. Besides which, he's not dead, that much were sure of, so shall we dispense with insults for now and focus on the job in hand?" asked Sloane, his voice increasingly cold.

Gibbs kept glaring at him for several long moments, but Sloane's reptile-cold eyes and face added to his glacial, dominating presence soon overwhelmed Gibbs determined, focused ruthlessness. Sloane didn't smile or even change expression in the slightest when Gibbs looked away first, but the darkness in his eyes could have made people leave the room in his presence. He didn't like to be challenged or threatened, one of the main reasons he so rarely was.

"Alright, enough, the pair of you. Everyone knows what's to happen next and, as for Jack Bristow, steps are being taken. So, questions first. Anybody?" said Landy, just her tone of voice making very clear that any arguments everyone there had with any other were all done for now...

_LA_

**Sleep is a weapon.**

_**-Jason Bourne**_

Dean Devlin, Retired former Director of the CIA, had simply settled into his town house in the suburbs of Los Angeles on his Retirement and resolved to live out what was left of his life there, with his ailing Wife by his side as long as possible. With his grey hair thinning atop his head, his grey eyes still razor sharp, his body starting to sag as age and lack of regular exercise added to too much good food caught up with him and his ageing body letting him know with increasing regularity of his aching old bones, he could no longer deny he was getting old. He was only fifty-seven years old, but with over thirty years of service with the CIA including five as Director he felt a good four times that more often than not.

The things he'd seen, all the things he'd done, so much death, destruction, pain... He'd live with the guilt the job let you dodge for the rest of his life, but he'd always known he would. Everyone paid a price in the end, it was the cost of living. The point was to leave a better world behind for your children, no matter what else you did or who was involved.

His son lived in New York where he worked as a Journalist, always trying to expose his fathers former employers for what he thought they were, an organisation of psychotic killers and megalomaniacs out to enforce America's secret control over the world by whatever means necessary. A view that Devlin had always found entertaining, although not the fact this meant his paranoid son wouldn't even talk to him in case he was tricked into listening to something that would give the CIA leverage over him. His son never had understood the truth of the business in that respect. As for his daughter? Lived in London where she worked as a fashion designer, a very successful one. Rarely called, but they did speak. A relationship complicated by his objections to her forming romantic relationships with a string of men and women over the past twenty years who she would casually toss aside when she got bored with them, an objection she said was based on an outdated sense of morality. People were broader minded these days, they'd get over it, she said.

He knew better, he'd seen just how far people would go when even merely socially slighted if the wrong words were chosen-the CIA taught you all kinds of things-but he could never tell her about that. Instead, he could keep dropping hints, like he always did, then add in the determined hope that she would grow up before she wound up Raped and dead in a ditch in the middle of nowhere one day. That would kill him, he knew it, but there was nothing he could directly do for the young woman unless she would listen to him...

...What a family he had. With two children long gone and missing from his life, a dying Wife with no hair barely more than a living skeleton as Cancer rotted her from the inside out who could no longer leave the bed without help... He was reduced to sitting in a chair in his study in grey pyjamas and black dressing gown, smoking a Cuban Cigar, wondering where his better world had gone to without him. Every night, for the rest of his life. This was no life, but what the Hell else could he call it?

Sitting in his two-storey white picket house, with plenty of big empty rooms intended for children, grandchildren and the physical memories of a lifetime, he just kept thinking, when he considered the dust sheets covering disused furniture sitting around the house, the empty bookshelves, the pointless photo albums...where had it all gone wrong? When he'd retired to look after his sick Wife? No, long before that. So long ago, in fact, that to think about it too much meant admitting something terrible about himself. A simple fact, the fact that he had no idea at all, outside of the job which had really been his whole point of existence for decades, of what the Hell to do about having a life outside of work. It hit him like a brick in the back of the head every time. He'd failed in his duties as a father, a husband and a man who should have set an example for his children. He was a disgrace. That accounted for the Russian Vodka on his desk, sometimes it got him so drunk that he stopped caring. Sometimes.

When he'd worked out just what Jason Bourne was up to, therefore, it had actually made him happy for the first time in longer than he could easily remember. The Assassin couldn't reach him soon enough, not with his Wife and children provided for. The job would kill him at the last, he'd always known it would and it had been _far_ too long in coming...

The Secret Service guards, the four he rated even Retired as a former Director of the CIA, were competent career men, but he could have taken them all out himself if he'd wanted coming from Bourne's angle. He could have moved to a Safe House, out of State, even left the country, but it would only have delayed the inevitable. The house was indefensible despite its size and extent, but he'd known that when he bought it almost thirty years ago and still didn't care. If he couldn't keep his family safe in his own home there was no point living in a Bunker, what kind of life was that anyway?

Ears which weren't what they once were caught traces of the slightest sound outside, a soft thumping noise, like a bird beating its wings in the night. Thirty-four years in the CIA taught you a few things, he knew better than to think it was that. The lights were already out, no need to worry about that now. Without hesitation, he poured himself a large glass of Vodka and swallowed it in one long swig, the strong liquor burning its way down his throat through his chest and on into his stomach. The trembling in his hands he'd noticed slowly stopped as the alcohol helped to settle worn old nerves. Jack Bristow would have said he'd been out of the field too long. He'd have been right, but it didn't matter now. He had to finish this here.

The soft noise came again as Devlin pulled out a writing pad and pen, proceeding to quickly and clearly write out a short letter. That done, the sound coming a third time, inside the house this time, he checked the house phone and his mobile, not even bothering to try the computer. His first act would have been to jam any uplink in Bourne's position to kill any possibility of external interference after cutting the power. The phone was dead, the mobile jammed. Good, he'd expected no less, his planning skill was one of the reasons he'd made and stayed at the job of DCI for so long. The mobile might not connect, but a buffer would store messages to be sent once the line was clear, something Bourne couldn't touch he was sure. He dialled the number and dictated the message aloud before shutting the mobile off. To finish, he reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a 44. Magnum, a massively powerful weapon he was no longer really strong enough to use, loaded it and cocked the hammer before turning to face the door in his chair.

"SIR!" shouted the desperate voice of William Jennings, the head of his Bodyguard detail, even as Devlin heard his running feet racing up the stairs towards the study-that noise came again, a sudden heavy thump sounded, then silence reigned. Devlin aimed squarely at the centre of the door, willing his weak arms to hold steady for just long enough-the door crashed open, lock shattered as the centre of the door buckled. Splinters hit him from six feet away, drawing blood, but he didn't even register the impact.

He pulled the trigger at a glimpse of movement and the big gun went off like artillery fire, a thunderous roar echoing as he blew a hole in the far wall he could have put his fist through, failing to hit anything else in the process. Before he could even move Bourne slipped around the corner like a ghost and the small gun in his hand spoke twice, the awful pain following the chest impact that threw him hard back into the chair twice telling him in no uncertain terms what had happened.

Double tap, quick and clean. Even as his vision narrowed to a dark tunnel and all sound went away, seconds left at best before the lights went out for the last time, forever, Devlin couldn't help but admire Bourne's efficiency. The CIA had trained and built him well.

Devlin's hoped that his wife wouldn't be the one to find his body, that his delayed message would get through first. As everything went black at last, he saw his wife's young, happy, beautiful face again, their children smiling and laughing with them the way it was always supposed to be...

Jason Bourne stepped past the still, bloody body of the former CIA Director, noting the oddly peaceful look on the dead man's face despite the fact his heart had almost been blasted clean out of his chest, spotting the sheet of writing paper with writing on it simply placed on the desk. He picked it up in his gloved hands, morbidly curious before he realised it was addressed to him. It read:

_Jason Bourne, protégé of Project Treadstone._

_An old soldier bids you farewell and good luck. You'll need it._

_I'm sorry, but it had to be done._

_To quote an old friend of mine:_

"_Sod this for a lark, I want a better world"._

_Goodbye._

_**Dean Devlin.**_

When he reflected on the odd letter later, which he took with him for a reason he couldn't quite pin down, Bourne never could understand it. The reason was quite simple.

Apologies are excuses for mistakes or bad behaviour, whether or not the act was intentional. No one on Project Treadstone could ever earn the right to apologise to him for what they'd done. No, they'd taken away his mind and his life, now he was claiming theirs in repayment. He didn't believe in quid pro quo, but he did believe in putting the past behind you and moving on. Once this was done, he could do that. No matter what Devlin or anyone thought, that was all he had left to live for.

_Marie_... More pain and suffering, despite desperate hope and true love, then he'd lost her too. He'd lost his last chance at redemption and escape, too. Now everyone was paying the price...

_APO headquarters_

Sloane's arrival back at APO coincided with a call to his secure phone from DCI Chase. After everything which had happened over the past day, with the injured Nadia still barely able to use her hands even as numerous bruises and minor cuts made their presence known to his eyes every time she shifted in discomfort, Sydney's miraculous recovery and Jack's disappearance, especially when added to the HUNTSMAN Task Force being set up with him as a Senior Agent, he had plenty to deal with. So he hoped she was only calling for an update, but knew she wasn't. Chase would never call APO after all that just as he was due to return, she could have gotten an update from any of the Agents in his absence. That meant there was something he needed to know. He sighed silently, sat down and picked up his phone.

"_Mobile Prison 17 has been hit, eight casualties, six IID Agents and two Navy SEALS, all dead. The Subject is missing and is absolutely confirmed as clear of the scene, Forensics say she was taken in a van but they have no way of telling who, how or why. The truck was hit with a mobile EMP blast then nuked with High Explosives, there isn't enough data or vehicle left solid enough to pull any traces and the bodies are so badly burnt it'll take an Autopsy just to confirm definite cause of death. Forensics tell me the detonation was so powerful their finding pieces of truck half a mile away and absolutely no clues, you understand?_" asked Chase, with no preamble. She sounded angry-and somewhat worried, with reason. The whole point of Mobile Prisons was to make it impossible to find the Subject on the basis they were always moving, never stopped and could not be identified. At least, not without access to some very highly classified information Langley didn't share with anyone below the Secretary of State even in the White House-and then reluctantly. That raised three possibilities as answers: a very senior leak, a Mole, or someone had Hacked the CIA mainframe. Even worse, it meant the Subject contained in Mobile Prison 17 was now at liberty and mobile somewhere in the USA, most likely with whomever had freed her. He really didn't need to have this to worry about right now as well.

"I see, so we have a major problem with this particular fugitive on top of what's already happening. Do the Analysts have any idea if she'll try to flee the country, go into hiding or attempt a retaliatory strike against CIA assets or interests immediately? Do they have other theories?" asked Sloane.

"_Hiding until she can recover somewhat and restore her resources and finances to a reasonable level. What's interesting is who they think broke her out given the professionalism of the job and the timing_" replied Chase, before pausing to gather herself. Obviously she'd been having a long bad day at the office too, Sloane couldn't help but think.

"_You aren't going to like this, Sloane, but they think that she was broken out by professionals to be engaged on a mission in this country against unknown assets or targets at some point in the near future. They don't know who or why and have very little to go on, but given the small size of the group that must have done this, how it was done, where and when, when you add in Anna's known past affiliations you come up with a short list of people who might have carried out the Hit. Would you like to guess who's at the top of the list?_" asked Chase, the sudden weariness in her voice telling Sloane everything he needed to know.

"The Styx Sisters" he replied without hesitation, well aware of the former K-Directorate Agents affiliation with the notorious group. A team of Master Assassins who sold their services to the highest bidder, who never failed and could get anyone, anywhere, wherever and whenever they wanted. A fact proven by several actions which defied the imagination of the CIA's best Analysts to explain their success against impossible odds, superior numbers and even when their target was actually dead according to all available intelligence.

"If you want someone killed, hire a Hit Man. If you want to kill someone nobody can find or hurt, someone of power, seek the truth. The Styx Sisters". That had been their "tag", but...

"It was my understanding that the Styx Sisters had disbanded, though?" Sloane continued, curious. He didn't know much about the small team, but rumoured involvement in the notorious 05' Cairo catastrophe were impossible to ignore given what had happened. Even CIA involvement in what had happened had been covered up as completely as possible, which had left relations with Egyptian Intelligence and the Government severely strained after they'd been left to clean up the mess. He suspected that he _still_ didn't know the full story of what had happened there in reality...

"_Bingo. The problem is that if the Sisters __are__ still active they have to be here for a reason, a reason I REALLY don't need to have to worry about with Jason Bourne in-country anyway. Not least because Anna's the only part of that team we ever ID'ed-hold on_" said Chase abruptly, a click sounding as she put him on hold. He was left on hold for several seconds, then Chase came back. "_My day improves. Call from the Secret Service just came through, four men down without a shot fired in defence in the LA area, one civilian casualty, all dead again. Dean Devlin is dead, Sloane. Son of a BITCH-! Sorry, but we both know who did it. Bastard... Tell me you have something useful or good to report?_" said Chase, clearly digging for some good news.

"I'm afraid not, but were working on it and I'll call you as soon as we have anything. Please pass my condolences on to Devlin's family, I knew him from the old days but my calling his family would be...inappropriate. I apologise for not being able to report any real results yet" said Sloane, wishing that he'd had time to check in with his team before this conversation.

"_I will. But I need SOMETHING, Sloane, so get on it. Goodbye_" replied Chase, before hanging up. Sloane reached up and slowly massaged the bridge of his nose, then stood up and went out to see what his team had discovered. He took in the sight of Sydney back at work in her spare suit, shook his head slightly and decided to start with Marshall.

Dixon was out with Nadia, who had been passed fit despite her injuries, tracking down the signal from the digital camera, while Marshall had been working on refining the pictures they had so that they could get any useful intelligence from them. With Jack gone Sydney was coordinating Intel and managing communications with Langley while working up what they already had to produce as full a picture as possible of what was occurring. She'd protested that she'd be of more use in the field, of course. He'd overruled her, despite his respect for her professionalism, on the basis that worry for her father might well effect her judgement and cause her to miss vital clues, act without thinking things through or make mistakes with her good instincts clouded by confusion caused by anxiety.

She needed to focus on the job and, of course, forcing her to use all of her powers of concentration in Analysis and communication as he was took care of two problems with one stone. Only Jack was better at organisation than Sydney in APO, a fact that was mainly true because Jack had a quarter-century more practise and experience than his daughter. He'd never admit as much to Jack himself, but he had little doubt that Sydney would exceed even her fathers legendary accomplishments and record in time...

"Mr Sloane? Ah, ha, yes, I've got, yes I've got it..." muttered Marshall, glancing at Sloane as he approached and speaking quickly as he repeated the same thing over and over again under his breath-the word "Yes", Sloane could tell.

"What do you have, Marshall?" asked Sloane, curiously, not sure what had got the computer genius so excited. After all, with everything going on he was following up several leads and working on a variety of evidence. Sloane made a mental note to gather the team to update them on the Bourne situation as soon as possible-then he saw just what Marshall had managed to discover on his computer screen. Marshall wasn't looking at him when he did, so he missed the expression that crossed his face for a heartbeat. The shock took his breath away, the surprise nearly threw him back over thirty years in time to one of the worst days even he'd ever known... That Barcode on the box Jack had been loaded in...

"I managed to clean up the image and run down the destination of the plane, its-" began Marshall, but a cold voice from behind him stopped him cold. He suddenly registered the fact that Sydney was staring at Sloane behind him, even as he suddenly felt as though ice was crawling up his spine for some reason.

"Vietnam, Saigon more precisely. The name of the person who paid for the cargo to be transported can't be run down, but is attributed to "Jade", correct?" asked Sloane. Marshall didn't need to think about it to know that it wasn't really a question. He did want to know just how on Earth even Sloane could come up with this information in particular just like this, though.

"Er, yeah, that's right. How did you-?" Marshall began, confused, but Sloane was already on his way to Sydney's desk. His brief answer was tossed over his shoulder and didn't make any sense.

"Jades dead. Sydney, call Dixon and Nadia, get them back here the second they find the camera, I want them in the air and mobile as soon as possible. No, _not_ you" said Sloane. He went straight on to his office, not bothering to even acknowledge the startled Weiss beyond his sharp comment. Weiss glanced at Sydney, who just shrugged helplessly, only Jack could challenge Sloane when his mind was set on something.

"Can I tell them where they're going?" asked Sydney, calling over to Sloane even as she called through to her sister and Dixon. Sloane didn't answer for a moment, then just looked straight at her as he sat.

"Vietnam. We have a Murder to solve" Sloane answered crisply, before beginning to type at his computer. Sydney didn't understand what on Earth he was talking about, but knew he'd explain when her sister and Dixon got back so controlled her frustration with an effort and got on with the job. That prevented her from spotting Sloane's next actions.

Sloane pulled out his wallet, then, with a strange hesitancy, reached into a concealed inner pocket and pulled out a small, yellowed photograph with worn edges that clearly rarely saw the light of day with its colour still so good after so many years. He stared at it, not able to help the surge of memories and almost-forgotten emotions looking at it always stirred inside him. That was the main reason he looked at it so little, the man he had been then wasn't the man he was now. He had to remember that, no matter what, Nadia or no Nadia. He was starting over, or trying, for her, that was where all of this began and ended for him. Everyone had a past, it was his future which mattered now.

Bar this.

In the picture, two men and a woman were visible, all around a bench in front of a bar called the _Free Leaf_ in English, which was built from a combination of yellow bamboo trunks and metal, all surrounded by the shadowed outlines of a brick building despite the high noonday sun. The building itself wasn't large, the eye could make out great green-leafed trees with huge dark-brown trunks in the background, but it was the three people in it who held the attention.

Himself, seated, thirty-odd years younger, hair jet-black, face youthful, free of wrinkles lines and pain carved in by later years of terrible, hard experience, even his eyes almost seemed innocent. Dressed in a pale cream T-shirt and trousers, black shoes on his feet, sunglasses halfway down his nose leaving his eyes evident, he actually looked young and-dare he say it, maybe even admit it?-happy. The mug of poor warm beer that bar had always served was easily evident in his right hand, held high. Of course, Emily had been alive then, Irina had been "Laura", they were young, brilliant, the CIA "Dream Team"...

Jack, the same age. Black hair, laughing smooth young face, smiling eyes, face astonishingly mobile unlike now, unhurt by the hideous loss and betrayal he'd suffered in 81' and suffered on through for over twenty-five years now. Dressed in white T-shirt, trousers and cream sneakers, full head of hair swept back from his face, Jack looked young, alive and full of life, vital and overflowing with vitality, energy, healthy... He was looking at a dead man. Than man had gone away one dark night in 81' and never, ever come back. The physical shell had returned, what was inside had never been the same, never could or would be.

Jack was dancing in the picture with the last person there, the focus of it. Young as them, slim, exquisite in form and nature, beautiful like nature itself yet a Hell-born Harpy crossed with a Demon if angry, ever, you never forgot people like her. Brown fawn eyes, perfect dusky, tanned creamy skin, shapely yet remarkably compact with hard muscle and liquid grace making the mere curving grace of her walk and movements simple poetry, black hair falling to her waist in a silk wave, she was easily evident as pure Vietnamese. She was wearing an off-shoulder light-green dress that was barely staying on as she moved and brown sandals, but the smile on her perfect ruby lips told anyone she didn't have a care in the world. He'd never forgotten how she'd only ever smiled around and with Jack, or just how close the two of them had seemed. Of course, Jack would never have cheated on Laura...

_Jade_. If she'd ever had another name he'd never known what it was, he doubted Jack had either. He also knew that he'd met four people as dangerous and capable as she was in his entire life, including Jack in his prime, one of whom was Irina Derevko. Jack had recognised the fact first-and put a stop to it forever with two bullets in her heart the last time he'd ever seen her, Sloane was absolutely certain. He'd gotten into the habit of referring to her as "Miss Saigon" over the years, in fact, as a way of remembering their last day, that awful last airlift out to the _Liberty_ under fire...

He flipped the photo over. On the back, partially faded, his writing was evident.

_Jade, Jack and me. Saigon, March 13th 1975_

The barcode on the box Jack had been loaded into was purposefully smeared to reveal only the exact same symbols as had identified the chopper that had finally evacuated Jack and him from the Embassy roof in Saigon, on August 29th 1975.

/End of Chapter 6. All Reviews welcomed/.


	8. Chapter 8

For all disclaimers: See Part 1.

All Reviews welcomed.

**The Last Day**

_Saigon, Vietnam, August 29__th __1975_

The young woman sprinted through the streets of Saigon as fast as long legs could carry her, breathing fast and sharp, eyes wide and staring all around. Past the bamboo and brick houses all around her, past the occasional brick or stone-built house that came from Europeans or the very wealthy.

Gunfire and explosions echoed in the distance, not far off in the distance, well inside the city and very probably making straight for her destination, against whatever resistance the few fighters still loyal to the dead South Vietnamese Government might feebly attempt to put up. They wouldn't even be slowed down with tanks running right over anyone who got in the way, literally-she had to _move_, _now_. Seriously.

Her jet-black hair bounced against her back and neck as she ran, held in a tight ponytail down her back. Her running strides were long and graceful, eating up the distance with ease, her long, slim body, all compact muscle and beaten-in stamina, easily driving her on. Brown slanted fawn eyes that marked her as Vietnamese and a tanned skin gleamed in the sunlight around her loose black dress and green shirt, sunlight that seemed to make the day far more pleasant that it had any right to imagine being.

Her name was Jade. That wasn't her real name, but that simply didn't matter at the moment. She had a task to accomplish, a reputation to uphold, forged in the Hell-born heat of her twenty-four years through both pain and loss-and she never, ever failed at either. She wasn't going to start now.

People huddled in doorways, inside buildings, ran in all direction but away from the fighting. People Prayed, screamed and wept, begged for it all to stop, took guns and went to join in-everyone was doing _something_. Even if, just like the crowds of people she was expertly dodging through at the moment, they were heading as a mad, disorganised mob straight to the American Embassy in an attempt to escape the final fall of their country. Everyone knew there would be no second chance, just like they knew the Americans didn't really care any more, but they had to try. The War was over, America had lost and left, only remnants remained-but they might just take a few desperate Souls with them. It was all the mob of hopefuls had left to hope for.

Fire leapt into the sky as buildings caught alight, she heard the clatter of heavy vehicles and massive engines. Tanks, a harsh, clattering military sound she was all too familiar with. On the main road to the Embassy, directly between her and her destination. Luckily, she knew every side road and shortcut, she could thread any needle here and get it done first. She'd get there, one way or another.

Screaming suddenly echoed everywhere as the shrieks of artillery fire filled the air, voices cutting through the chaos to order everyone to take cover. She dived straight over and behind the nearest wall-a wise decision, it turned out, as a shell crashed in on the centre of the crowd.

A dozen people simply disappeared, bits and pieces of them falling down from the sky like rain even as the ground they'd been standing on instantly turned bright red with blood and gore. Men, women and children everywhere screamed again, terrible, terrifying sounds, telling of horror, pain, anguish-and fury. She leapt up and sprinted on with no time to waste, expertly stepping over and around the scattered, ragged remains.

She glimpsed the embassy building ahead-a huge three-storey effort, made of grey stone walls and concrete with few windows. A helicopter was on the roof, the colour scheme and insignia designating it a military transport to her practised eyes. Men with guns in military uniforms were everywhere, guarding the whole site from absolutely anyone who might have tried to get in. Eight-foot gates and steel fences with barbed wire on top kept everyone but the desperate out of the compound, men and women frantically waving Passports, Papers and even children in frantic attempt to gain access. Bullets, applied in quantity whenever necessary, did the rest.

It didn't take someone with her background to realise the entire fence and the gates were going to go sooner rather than later, though, everyone who could was hanging onto them like they represented life itself and shaking the whole structure as though they saw an Earthly paradise the other side. Hundreds of people literally piling onto what were at best temporary structures with no care for safety or sense with almost insane levels of desperation? She was almost glad she wasn't inside the Embassy herself now. All Hell had already broken loose, in there it was only going to get worse.

She raced into the small park with thick trees and some dense grass, cutting a sharp left, then slowed to a fast walk. This was the place. "Jack?" she called out, carefully, well aware the Vietcong was after her even here. Anyone might have taken refuge here in desperation...

A dead man fell out of the bushes and landed at her feet. She could tell he was dead from the large hole where his throat used to join to his jaw at the front-someone had carved out the entire upper half of his neck. Vietnamese, early thirties, no evident uniform, good physical shape, in cover-Contract Killer waiting in ambush. Well, that was one down.

She glanced up-and smiled as her Contact stepped into view. Of course he was here, he was a professional.

Jack Bristow, six foot two, close to two hundred pounds of muscle, sinew and bone. Cold brown eyes glinted in a smoothly handsome face highlighted by black hair and a sharp smile that showed white teeth. In a loose blue shirt, grey trousers and white sneakers she could admire his granite-hard physique-and easily recall just what it felt like up close... A CIA Agent, an American, a Married man with a young daughter who was practically still a newborn... Jack Bristow was the only man both cold and hard enough to ignite even the slightest of interests in the disused, rotting organ of life in her chest called a heart by Doctors. To her, as long as it was pumping she didn't need it for anything else. Again, Jack was the only exception somehow, that organ actually warmed up the slightest amount and beat faster whenever she was around him. She sometimes wished she knew why-she, of all people, knew sex wasn't everything.

"Its done, Hsui Kaian Mai is dead and I am now the mortal enemy of every Communist in Vietnam. Therefore, I hope that my sister is already safe?" Jade asked, matching gazes with Jack.

Her sister, Dao Sien Ma, a helpless four year old born twenty years later to their addled mother, was the only reason that even possibly existed that could drive her to assassinate so senior an official in the Communist Party at this time. Jack Bristow was one of very few people who knew of her existence-he was also the only one who'd made an offer she'd actually listen to, as opposed to, for example, dismembering the messenger and sending him back to his employers a bit at a time, every part with a new message that said "No". It helped that she actually trusted Jack, although again she couldn't say why she did.

"She was taken out to the _Liberty_ an hour ago, I put her in and saw her off in the helicopter. I'll join her there when were done here. Before I forget, thank you" said Jack, reaching out a hand to shake.

She smiled, shook his hand-a second before she felt a sharp, jagged pain in her side, deep inside. She looked down-Jacks free hand had embedded a Hunters jagged-edge knife deep into her chest between her ribs on the right side of her body. Blood was already streaming down her side-even as her legs began to go, he ripped the knife out and drew a revolver with a Silencer. He then shot her, twice, at point blank range, in the heart. The impact catapulted her over backwards and slammed her to the ground, with a very final limp thump as she landed. Most people would have been dead before they hit the floor. She stayed conscious for a few more seconds, her eyes accusing, then drew a last rattling breath into her lungs before collapsing, completely limp, a pool of blood starting to form under her as her eyes rolled up completely.

Jack checked Jades vitals-pulse, heartbeat and breathing-before deciding to forego the complete decapitation he had considered, just in case. She was dead, no question of it, he'd seen too many dead bodies in his life not to know the difference. It was time for him to go-but as a last sign of respect, he gently closed both of her eyes...

He ran down the streets, legs pumping, heart pounding, eyes sharp and focused, looking for anyone at all he didn't recognise and some he maybe did. On this day, in this place, the only people left he could trust were American-and not all of them were true patriots. The one exception was dead and gone behind him now. _Jade_...

He reached the Embassy, running so fast and hard he was almost out of breath, before heading straight for an apparently deserted area of the compound fence-deserted because a surprising amount of firepower was aimed at anyone who tried to mount it. Dodging past and through the crowds before anyone picked up on his identity, he jumped on the fence without stopping and expertly scaled the wire. He'd practised exactly what he was doing too many times to count, just in case, so he knew just how to slip over and past the barbed wire guard without even slowing down. He rolled right over the top and jumped without hesitation, landing in a tumblers roll and springing back to his feet before sprinting right for the main entrance. The faster Vietnamese who tried to follow him got shot without hesitation by the gunners, they all knew what was at stake, as well as who to watch for.

The crack of gunfire suddenly sounded over the chaos of shouts and screams echoing everywhere-he instantly dived and rolled full out, knowing in a heartbeat that those weapons weren't carried by US personnel. Bullets whined past his ear and slashed through the air where he'd been standing, crashing into concrete and stone, but he changed direction fast and made it to the doors before any more shooting came towards him. Heavy gunfire erupted from the Marine guards by the main entrance doors, solving another problem. Inside, he saw a surprisingly welcome face as well as the one he'd been expecting.

Slim, compactly muscular, with arctic-cold blue eyes and short-cut black hair framing an almost thin face graced with elegant cheekbones, Arvin Sloane was more of the thinker than the doer that Jack was. It didn't change the fact that the smaller man fought with ferocious, almost feral intensity in any fight and, in Jack's professional opinion, could have easily held his own in a fight against nine of any ten people they both knew. The slim physique half-hidden under cream short-sleeved shirt and trousers was as solid as steel, when backed up by a force of will that could have broken most men with a few choice words and threats alone Sloane became truly dangerous.

That was why they made the perfect team. Jack fought and got the Intel however he had to, Arvin planned and thought of the details as his Partner, but they could just as easily operate in an exactly reversed style-in fact, they often had. Both of them were perfectly capable of doing whatever had to be done at any given time, both of them were believers who knew to do their jobs with complete professionalism. With them it was never a case of "If?", it was always "When?"

The second man was a different matter. Closer to Jacks build but a little slimmer, his eyes flickered from grey-green to hazel to grey as the sunlight hit his face, illuminating light brown hair. His face was extraordinarily mobile, his features exceptional in their strange shifts as he moved, his entire appearance seeming to shift from one look to the next. In a light-green shirt and black trousers he looked like nothing special, just a man who was exceptionally fit and strong with massive physical development concealed by a lean frame and a near-slouch posture. The fact he held an M-16 casually in his hands didn't suggest anything beyond a familiarity with firearms.

Jack had seen the man rip another's throat out with his fingertips in less time than it took to tell, torture a man to death by flaying him alive with a smile and kill a disembowelled man from the inside out by setting his guts on fire. This was a man capable of executing his own half-brother in cold blood in the field-even if that man had been betraying his brother and allies to the enemy.

His name was David Webb, but no one called him that any more. Nowadays, they just called him Cain, his dead-eyed stare and almost psychotic violence in combat earning him the Call sign a thousand times over.

Webb had lost his entire family, a Wife, a son and a daughter, to the War in 1970, all killed by an aerial attack the origin of which had never been identified, no one alive had seen the planes markings. Choosing to believe that this terrible, dirty war had spread out to engulf his own family from the north, Webb had become Cain and gone north to join Medusa, an illegal paramilitary CIA operation that planted killers behind enemy lines. It was made of men who had nothing to loose at all, who wanted to rip apart everything the Communist north stood for-even if their beliefs were only motivated by cold, hard cash supplied from CIA Black Budgets that were shrinking all the time as the war went on.

In later years, Jack Bristow would reflect that the man who called himself David Webb died with his family on that terrible day in 70', his mind simply refused to accept the fact-then lost the chance forever after he lost his memory in 78', having been shot in the head by an intended Assassin. Of course, he became Jason Bourne in 75' almost immediately after his escape from Vietnam following several conversations with the Monk-he had nothing else to live for and was the coldest, most ruthlessly effective and efficient killer anyone ever knew. But the identity of the Assassin was something no man should ever have had to live with, even if it was all you had left...

"Jack, good to see you. I presume the bitch is dead?" asked Sloane. Sloane never had liked Jade, or her him, Jack silently reflected.

"Heartless or not, she still needs one to go on living. I thought you'd be gone by now, David?" replied Jack, turning sharp eyes on Webb.

"Are you joking? Vietnam's going to be the last thing I see when I leave, not the rotors of some helicopter with you two on coming after me. We should leave _now_, though, I think" said Webb, as a massive bang sounded outside, the sound suggesting that the hinges of the gates were starting to give way. Gunfire into the air followed instantly as the Marines drove the crowds back again, but it was only a temporary respite.

"Agreed" said Jack, before turning and moving at a fast stride towards the staircase and the roof. Thankfully there weren't many people they needed to avoid, well over three-quarters of the Embassy personnel were long gone and safe. Only a few remaining essential personnel and the Marines-who would, of course, go last-were left, bar him and other officers of very specific agencies with very specific orders.

Fortunately or unfortunately, the remaining evacuees also included the staff of the CIA office situated in the centre of the Embassy, the two desk-jockey Agents in there busy burning papers and documents, destroying along the way anything even possibly valuable. The office was on the third floor, most of the way to the roof and the waiting helicopter, so a small detour to check on it didn't seem out of the question to Jack. Again, in years to come, he'd wonder whether or not, if he'd never even asked the question, things might have been..._different_, somehow.

Webb saw it first and let the safety off on his M-16 so sharply that Jack almost thought they were being shot at. Then he saw it, swore and drew his gun.

_Blood_. On the doorframe and, just visible with the half-closed door barely illuminated from the inside, on the floor by the door, in the shape of handprints and fingertips, as though someone bleeding badly had tried to drag themselves out of the office. There was an outer office for public meetings and an inner office where the actual work was done, the real records kept. Jack had sharp ears-and he couldn't hear one single, solitary thing from inside the outer office.

_Shit_ was the only thing he could think. Marines were all over the building guarding vital access points, the outer cordon had to be withdrawing into the building prior to full evacuation by now, the cordon had been up for days-so no one could have gotten in by simply walking through the front gate. That meant either a Mole or, worse, a truly formidable enemy Agent had managed to penetrate their security cordon, right into the CIA office... Sloane drew his own gun, they clicked off their safeties simultaneously with unconscious synchronisation. Well, between the three of them it wouldn't matter, one way or another. Whoever it was, the enemy was now dead...

Sloane stepped forwards and slammed a kick into the door, which crashed open-but hit something heavy and solid with a loud thud before it collided with the wall, even as Jack and Webb leapt to firing positions covering the entire room from opposite angles. A middle-aged dead body, lying in a pool of blood centred around the neck. The mans throat had been cut all the way to the spine, it had been his last act to try and open the door. Jack knew his name, Adrian Low, a fifteen year CIA veteran who was more desk jockey than field agent but who still was capable enough that it would have been no mean feat to take him down without a sound at close quarters.

Inside the room, a thick trail of red blood led to the door from a seat set behind a desk with a typewriter on it. Filing cabinets lined the walls-all of them and the desks drawers had been wrenched open and turned out. Papers of all sizes, shapes and descriptions were scattered anywhere and everywhere, mixed in with blood, crushed underfoot, tossed into corners and left scattered all over the desk. Given the sheer amount of blood settling all over the typewriter it was obvious where the attack had occurred. The attacker had to have walked into the room, been seen and been considered not a threat immediately before the killing. Who? Even the KGB didn't have that many Agents capable of pulling acts like this...

They moved forwards slowly towards the inner door, which was shut, covering each other, eyes flickering from side to side taking in every angle. Sloane led again, stepping up to the door, a quick shake of the head making it evident that he couldn't hear anything. Jack and Webb aimed right at the door as Sloane prepared-he kicked the door down and went to roll inside.

Things suddenly happened very fast.

Jack glimpsed the briefest flash of silver before Sloane screamed and went over backwards, a knife suddenly almost buried in his right-side upper chest. He threw himself behind the desk as an arm appeared with a gun in the hand and started shooting, bullets slashing through the air where he'd been standing a split-second before. Webb opened fire but missed as the figure disappeared again-before a tall figure somersaulted right out of the doorway in a corkscrew dive which left it skidding backwards on its back across the floor towards the outside door even as it returned fire at Webb.

Webb dived flat and fired off short bursts, but was pinned down and couldn't aim properly-even so Jack glimpsed a flash of blood spurt from their attackers chest. The figure performed a flawless spinning kick without stopping, coming instantly to its feet-before going through the open door in a break fall roll and sprinting away down the corridor.

Jack leapt to his feet and took off after the figure, Webb right on his heels. He opened fire at a glimpse, but the figure moved like a Ghost and defied its own centre of gravity to almost flow around the corner _so_ fast it was hard to take in, the wall being the only thing he damaged.

"Jack! STAIRS!" barked Webb, taking note of their route. Their opponent was making for the downstairs exit via the stairs following this route-only there were two.

"GO!" Jack barked, then sprinted on directly after their opponent. Webb cut left and disappeared in a second, pounding feet crashing away on carpeted floors as he ran. Jack did his best to keep an eye on everything as he ran-but wasn't quite sharp enough.

The sidekick cracked a rib as their attacker came out of the doorway on his right, doubling him over. He felt his nose snap as a mighty punch threw him backwards before a double-footed kick to his chest nearly broke his ribs into his chest and killed him, even as it knocked him to the floor, his attacker landing on his chest with both feet. He coughed blood before he heard the click of a gun being cocked, swore and knew he was dead... After a long, long second of knowing he wasn't, he managed to open his eyes. What he saw wasn't what he'd expected, to say the least. It was a woman, for one thing...

Five eight, close to ten stone of solid muscle and curves set around a slim form, long raven-black hair held in a tight ponytail down her back. A combination of Slavic and Roman blood made her almost impossibly, unimaginably beautiful with flawless, perfect bone structure, a fantasies physique and creamy smooth skin only adding to the allure. Dark clothes-close-fitting jacket, shirt, trousers and boots, all jet black-only enhanced the effect on the eyes of the lethal beauties almost disturbing mere presence.

In her mid thirties, possessed of the kind of allure and sharp-eyed intelligence that caught and held the imagination, let alone the eye, what really caught him were her eyes. Cobalt blue, electric, steel-hard and ice-cold, those impossible, magnetic eyes cut into you, through you and then through everything else in their way with such awful, unimaginable intensity that it was like being stabbed in the heart with a knife while it was on fire from the forge. After locking eyes with her he couldn't breathe, let alone move, he could barely even think. He'd never known anything like the shock of meeting the woman this way, nor would he ever again. Even memory and imagination couldn't do it justice...

"Rasputin" she said, softly, her voice almost a purr, sensual and sultry with a trace of Italian in the accent. "Mavra Kalia Rasputin, sometimes known as the Raven. You are Jack Bristow, yes? Ha..." said Mavra, slowly. Then she actually threw her head back and let out a soft laugh, as though she knew something that was truly absolutely hilarious and he wasn't in on the joke.

She said something in flawless Italian, then in perfect Russian, he couldn't have picked out a flaw in her language if he'd had the rest of his life to try. He followed what she said in Russian although not Italian, even as he dazedly tried to force his battered body to respond, to function. His limbs weren't listening to him, though... Had she said the same thing in two different languages? Why would he even _think_ that? He didn't know, he _couldn't_ know?

"Tell Irina Derevko the Raven says hello" said Mavra, in English suddenly-then she violently kicked him in the head so fast and hard he had no time to do more than register the movement. He felt something crack even as he suddenly tasted a mass of blood in his mouth and throat, then everything went black as Hell on a dark night.

_Am I dead?_

That was the last thing he remembered thinking before everything went away. Months later, he would recover tattered memories, seen through the fog of a severe Concussion, of the injured Sloane and Webb finding him, hurt and helpless, before manhandling him all the way up onto the roof. They put him in the helicopter even as the Marine guards fended off panicking Vietnamese desperate to escape to America who had some claim on a seat on that helicopter too, then kept him awake on the flight out to the _Liberty_, the Aircraft Carrier that was their evacuation point in the South China Sea just out of sight of the coast of Vietnam. Bullets slashed past and into the helicopter at one point, but the Marines riding shotgun made sure that stopped quickly. After that he was tended by the ships Surgeon before being flown home alongside the injured Sloane.

"_...Jack..._"

He _didn't_ remember anyone calling him to wake up at any point on that journey. Most certainly not a woman...

"_...Jack, wake up..._"

_The South China Sea, 2007, four days ago_

"Jack, wake up...ah, its about time" said a woman's voice. It wasn't the voice of anyone he knew, but still sounded vaguely familiar, which was a disturbing development immediately. He took stock.

He was lying in a comfortable bed, naked, covered by silken sheets. He wasn't restrained in any way. He felt clean and fresh, refreshed even, as though he'd just showered, shaved and had his morning wake-up call of pitch-black coffee with no sugar along with the buttered toast and marmalade he allowed himself, one of few luxuries. He didn't feel dehydrated or hungry, which suggested that not that much time had passed. He felt well rested, but he only needed six hours a night to maintain peak efficiency naturally. This felt like more, as though he'd been out for several times that amount of time.

He felt luxuriously relaxed and rested despite his situation-drugs? He didn't know where he was, who he was with or what he was doing there. Every alarm should have been going off, he should have snapped awake and been ready for anything in a heartbeat, that was _always_ the case in this situation, it was Protocol for him. _But_-he hadn't. Why? Did he unconsciously know something his conscious mind hadn't realised yet?

The tang of greenery, deep jungle smells, almost overwhelmed by a heavy, thick heat that drew his sweat sitting still in the shade. The sound of water beating on the beach not that far away, maybe a mile. The taste of freshly squeezed oranges on his tongue... His heart almost stopped. He'd only ever shared _that_ particular morning ritual with one person on Earth, the habit of licking orange juice dripped from freshly squeezed oranges straight onto smooth skin, from firm breasts and elegant swans neck, sometimes even the lips, the legs...

One person, one woman, who was _not_ his Wife, Lau-_Irina Derevko_, who had _never_ been his Wife, not really. Laura Bristow was the good Wife, the faithful, honest woman he'd trusted with his life, his child, his secrets...she was the woman who was a fantasy, soft, gentle, warm, loving and caring, tender even-sometimes. Everything Irina Derevko was _not_, the complete opposite in fact.

Which, of course, explained his continuing inability to separate the two more than twenty-five years on from that awful revelation.

The fact that she'd been playing with and lying to him all along, that she'd killed friends and colleagues of his, done all kinds of terrible, devastating damage that he could never fully comprehend behind his back while he'd been blind to the truth... _If_ he had been. Sometimes, he wondered... He sighed, why did his mind always come back to that woman whenever he let it wander? She was _dead_, in the name of mercy...

He gave in and opened his eyes, deciding to deal with the situation as it presented itself. The bright sunlight momentarily dazzled him as he glimpsed a seated figure by the bed he was in, the sun coming in through wide-open French doors, then his eyes adjusted. When he saw who was there with him at last, somehow it actually made him smile. Madness was the best response to insanity, let alone the impossible, which she was.

Thirty-odd years hadn't really changed her that much. Her jet-black hair was longer, below waist length, but there were no traces of grey yet at all. He knew her better than to presume she'd use dye to conceal something like that, even now. Intelligent brown eyes gleamed in a still-smooth face that easily possessed all of the allure she had all those years ago, her slanted eyes marking her as a Vietnamese native. The slightest of lines at the edges of her eyes and mouth were the only outward marks of her ageing evident, as though nature itself was frightened of her and didn't dare even try to claim her. Her body was still compact, slim and firm, the light-green dressing gown she wore letting him tell that for certain as the belt failed to really hold it shut. That and the fact that she was clearly wearing nothing under the dressing gown made it easy to wake up very quickly, his eyes picking out hard muscle.

Almost delicate hands reached up and, with long, elegant fingers, opened the dressing gown over her heart. Two long healed scars, clearly bullet wounds, were still terribly evident. She let the dressing gown fall off of one shoulder, covering her bared breast with an arm in a show of modesty he knew was deliberately put on for him. The right side of her body held a faded old stab wound, thin and small, the kind created by a knife being rammed between ribs into internal organs with some force. He stared, then she pulled the dressing gown back on around her, leaving it loose in such a way that he could easily make out the rich curves and firm lines of her body in the half-lit shadows she created amongst the folds.

"Seen enough, Jack?" she asked, softly. The look in those cold eyes made even him think about his answer seriously, despite the almost tender longing he could sense in the way she was half reaching out to him, half holding back. She was sitting on the end of his bed in a ground floor room inside a large structure, one he'd never seen before, air conditioning rumbling along so quietly that it was barely more than a whisper of sound. The room was tastefully decorated with a variety of expensive artworks, fine mahogany flooring of superb craftsmanship and soft cream paint that made it relaxing and gentle on the eyes. It suited her.

He turned to look at her full on at last, met her eyes. There was only thing to say, after all, something he had to say to her face.

"Hello, Jade" he said, slowly...

_Langley, Virginia, CIA Headquarters_

DCI Hayden Chase had had a long day, a very long day, of the kind that left her snapping unnecessarily at various subordinates-which she hated doing-with a headache that was trying to beat her eyes out of her head from the inside. Thinking hurt, moving hurt, doing pretty much anything apart from dreaming of a long, warm, relaxing bath aided by soft Trance music to settle her frayed nerves and unsettled mind hurt. It felt like she'd taken a red-hot Poker to the base of the skull and it wasn't going to get any better soon.

She had to stop herself from wishing that she could just yank Marcus off of whatever assignment he was on and get him to give her one of those miracle massages he was so good at, his strong fingers kneading the muscles of her neck and back in that slow, deliciously soft way he had. She _could_, the DCI had that authority, but she'd never abused her rank or privileges and had no intention of starting now, not even after the day she'd had. Not even for the feel of that hard body against her own once more, muscular, strong arms wrapped tight...

Senior CIA Agents were in uproar over Dean Devlin's assassination in LA when the Agency was supposed to have been watching his back, as well as the Secret Service, as a former Director of the CIA. Jack Bristow's disappearance at a time when he would have been one of the most useful assets or Agents at her disposal spoke for itself. The Styx Sisters apparent return from the dead at the same time as Jason Bourne's abrupt reappearance in the USA were connected or she was ten years old and fantasising all of these problems, she just didn't know how yet and had no leads at all. The HUNTSMAN Task Force was just getting going after eight months of patient negotiation on her and Landy's part. Setting up a Covert multi-Agency Task Force of this nature to track down and deal with a former CIA asset who had no official links with the Agency was no small task, especially when figuring in just who and what Bourne was. There was no point in trying to delude herself over that, most of the people she was going to send after Bourne, officially and unofficially, were never coming back, that was simply what it would take...

She sat back in her chair behind her desk, taking in the darkness outside the windows of her office, rubbed the top of her nose with the fingertips of her right hand and let out a sigh. Closing her eyes, she found Marcus's face waiting inside her mind, warm, welcoming-and ever, ever so distracting. She really did wish she could call him, no matter what, just this once, but she wouldn't. She'd had worse than this in her time, although not as the DCI, she could and would cope. That was all there really was to it.

Maybe it was time for more black coffee, the kind overloaded with sugar to the extent it ate spoons and dissolved teeth? Maybe she should just get a bed installed in her damn office. She was starting to seriously consider that, not sure whether or not she found even the idea disturbing-

He Mobile suddenly rang, startling her. Very few people knew the direct line number for her Mobile, for good reason-the fact that she was the DCI being only the start. Nobody liked getting unexpected phone calls from strange people in strange places. As a veteran CIA Agent and a woman who'd spent decades working her way up through the ranks, she knew better than most the real risks associated with people being able to get hold of you anywhere, any_when_ they chose. People sometimes had to learn the hard way that she had to have her private time respected.

"Hello?" she asked, not sure what to expect as she flipped the Mobile open, not expecting any calls. Even in the CIA and senior Government circles, nine out of ten people would have called her office Direct Line rather than her Mobile if they had both numbers. Unless it was something they wanted kept quiet...

Dean Devlin's voice filled her ear, speaking quickly and clearly. She was actually shocked, but retained enough presence of mind to take in and think through the message as it went on. She listened to it a second time to be sure of the details, then deleted it and hung up. Picking up the phone for her official line, she dialled a number. A voice came on after a few seconds.

"_Yesh-sorry, yes Sir?_" replied a mans sleepy voice. Chase glanced at her watch-00:35, no wonder she felt so creaky. She'd barely been out of the office in twelve hours.

"This is DCI Chase, I want an Agency-sanctioned jet sent to Ho Chi Minh International Airport two days from now to arrive at precisely twelve midday. It will be transporting a single CIA Agent back to the USA directly, no questions asked. Consider that a direct Order, get it done" said Chase, then put the phone down before the man she'd called could even acknowledge the Order. That had felt good, but brought home to her just how tired she really was. She managed, directed, she didn't "Boss" people around. Maybe it really was time she went home and got a little sleep? Being a borderline workaholic sometimes did have its drawbacks.

She just hoped that Devlin's dealings didn't come back to haunt her. Mind, if he'd managed to pull off just what he said he had in the message, if he was still alive she'd have kissed him...

/End of Chapter 7. All Reviews welcomed/.


	9. Chapter 9

For all disclaimers: see Part 1.

All Reviews welcomed.

**The Last Day**

_Massachusetts, the USA, 2005_

The deadly dull darkness of dusk, the half-lit time when even the world seemed trapped between sleep and wakefulness, was just falling when they finally came into sight of the broad salt marshes. The roads to this place were very few and very rough, the railroad line had been torn up well over a hundred years ago and not enough of the twentieth century had ever made its way here, or near here, to drag conveniences like airports or paths which didn't sink back into the bogs anywhere near.

In reality, there were roads which ran near the old place, but not one that went to it, that had been torn up a long time ago and the way had been, very deliberately, forgotten, utterly. The only way in was either swimming or wading for miles, but the driver of the silver Lamborghini that had pulled to a sharp stop at the end of a rutted old dirt track, one set like cement by salted mud hardened by cold winds and decades of undisturbed rain, didn't look or feel the slightest bit bothered by this. In fact, she was looking forwards to it.

Shutting off the bright headlights, shutting away the only traces of the modern world for as far as the eye could see, she opened the door, stepped outside and stood up straight, resting an elbow on the roof of the car as she gazed out at the salt marshes. Looking at this lost, dead, almost forsaken place, she felt a sense of satisfaction she rarely experienced. Being here...felt like coming home, there was no other way to put it.

She felt the sleek triple-thick Nomex weave of her jet-black cat suit press against her body, shining sleekly in the dying light of a falling sun as it caressed her curves with a lovers touch, her black leather duster falling over it about her shoulders and down almost to her feet. Her combat boots, solid and hard, the same colour and perfectly containing her feet, helped her sense the ground beneath her feet in a way which bare feet didn't, reminded her that all of this was only true for a while. Chestnut hair hung loose and almost lanky about her head and shoulders while smooth, creamy, almost pale skin gleamed in the growing darkness, highlighting dark, penetrating chestnut eyes that cut like diamonds deep inside. Sleek, svelte, slim, easily curved in form and figure, she was beautiful in a way that let fine bones and a hard, compact physique speak for themselves. Makeup was an option to her, not a necessity.

Her name was Selene, right now at least. She'd had another one, more in fact, once, but that had been another time, another place, another lifetime altogether. Now Selene wasn't just who she was, she was _what_ she was.

The passenger door swung open and a slightly taller woman with long blonde hair stepped out, looking puzzled and a little unsure. Brown eyes surveyed the landscape and took in the salt marshes, the long grasses, the empty, rough ground everywhere, then rotated back to her.

"Selene, don't take this the wrong way, but where the Hell are we and what are we doing here?" asked Julia Thorne, gesturing at their empty surroundings for emphasis with a broad wave of her hand. Wearing a dark-blue shirt, grey sweater and trousers with dark-brown walking boots and a heavy brown coat, the younger woman's natural beauty was surprisingly subdued, her naturally lean and physically solid physique as well as her more evident physical attributes being effectively concealed beneath layers of clothes. It didn't take away from the fine-featured face that so many had found so alluring, any more than it distracted attention from eyes that struck home every time with a penetrating intelligence.

The physical disguises that she wore didn't take away from the fact that they hid both someone and something truly remarkable if you looked closely enough-just as it became obvious if you looked hard enough that she'd never really told the truth. "Julia Thorne" _wasn't_, just like Andrian Lazarey wasn't dead-but they all had their secrets and they all kept them close.

Julia's employer, the Covenant, would have had her tortured and mutilated at the very least if they'd discovered the truth, maybe killed-but she doubted that last one. Julia-whatever her real name was-meant something significant enough to the Covenant that they'd had her covertly shadowed everywhere she'd gone, watched every single thing she'd done to a degree Selene didn't doubt bordered obsession and worse. It had only stopped after the formation of the Styx Sisters nine months ago, when an irate Talia had caught one of the Covenant spies, made extensive recordings of what she'd done to him for over a week, then sent his remains back to the Covenant mixed in with rice and peas, bite-size chunks of raw meat being all that had been left by that point. A note had been added to make the situation absolutely clear. It had just said:

_Bite me_.

The Covenant had simply disappeared after that, something which had evidently puzzled Julia for a while. It shouldn't have, but maybe she'd had trouble taking in the fact that their own personal Queen of Hell, Talia, Julia's sometime Lover, was capable of acts of monstrosity that could make monsters weep and leave entire peoples awake in their beds for months, never able to feel safe again. Not that she, Selene, couldn't have gotten the message across of course...

She sometimes wondered if Julia had ever realised just how far she, Talia and Cole had gone to make damn sure she was safe with them, even from her own employers. The trail of bodies and blood would have let her walk across the Nile without getting her feet wet while leading her to the South Pole and back again. The destruction caused-not even counting Cairo-would have shocked Veterans of the Vietnam War. Talia had even taken the young woman into her bed, although where _that_ would lead, knowing Talia the way she did, was anyone's guess, but it would, a hard, cold, unarguable fact, end in pain and loss. The message had been made clear, final and absolute: she belongs to _**US**_. No one had challenged them on it ever since they'd made the point.

"Were on the east coast in the middle of, to quote an American saying I quite like, "Fucking nowhere". As to where were _going_... Patience, Jules, patience, you'll see. However, we are on foot from now on, so lock the door, stay close beside me, don't react to anything odd you might see or hear and do _exactly_ what I tell you. Remember, before you ask anything, that you wanted to know where I go to think and relax. We're almost there, so hush and lets move on" said Selene, killing the lights, slamming shut her door and locking it before walking forwards a few paces to the edges of the marshes.

She paused there a minute, raised her head, closed her eyes and breathed in, tasting the tang of salt and the wet hint of the sea on her tongue as the cold, fresh air, largely free of the thick, harsh pollution the modern world tainted it with, blew gently over her. It tasted like freedom, she sensed paradise in the wind. Not far now at all...

"Uh, Selene? There are salt marshes in all directions around here, if we get lost in the dark even our bodies will never be found. Please tell me you know a safe way there..." said Julia, slowly.

"Oh yes, its not so much where as how in any case. Stay close and step where I do, do _not_ get distracted. One last thing, you'll need these" said Selene, walking to the boot of the Lamborghini and popping it open. Inside were wooden torches wrapped in rags and soaked with oil, eight each for her and Julia in a brown leather sling that was designed to be slung across the back. Along with that came an old Tinderbox each, followed by a waterproof dark-green rucksack each that she'd pre-packed with necessary supplies. They were already armed, each having a concealed firearm and knife somewhere about their person, they didn't need anything else.

Julia looked at her, looked at the torches, looked back at her, then shook her head once. "I feel as though I'm in a horror movie which forgot electricity because it was inconvenient... Okay, I can do this. Tell me why?" Julia asked hopefully.

"The natives react very badly to people with flashlights and Flares, they have their reasons. Light a torch, will you? You don't want to be blind here" replied Selene, even as she withdrew the last two items she needed from her car.

The first was a pure silver necklace she hung around her neck, with a very unusual central design hanging down from the front. The creature was three dimensional, with a pulpy, tentacled head set atop a grotesque and scaly body with rudimentary wings. The creature was vaguely anthropological in outline, but its octopus head was a mass of feelers while its body was scaly and rubbery-looking. It had prodigious claws on its front and rear feet and long, narrow wings behind. It was corpulent in nature, but seemed when observed to be surrounded by a strange aura that was almost malignant despite its total lack of animation or life. Its physical proportions and strange shape had proved so disturbing for the Silversmith concerned that he'd forfeited half its price rather than keep it himself any longer. He thought he'd seen or sensed something truly awful, something he'd never wanted to know about as he'd created the decoration for her-even though it was more than that to her.

She just smiled every time she thought about that. If he'd ever actually set foot on R'lyeh, or been to Irem, the City of Pillars? Let alone read the runes, seen the Hieroglyphics and images? If he'd actually made true contact-rather than through dreams and with odd thoughts-with the origin of that design? His mind would have snapped like a rotten branch in a hurricane and he would have died of fright sooner than it took to tell. Some people just weren't able to take in and accept the truth...

The second item was a remarkably fine and delicate piece of jewellery, a piece of such fine and unearthly splendour, made of an impossible alloy no one could understand or copy, that she'd been offered a literal fortune more than once to sell it. She never had, she never ever would.

The piece was a Choker that fitted close around the throat in a spider web design, of a silver-gold alloy mixed in with tiny fragments of every kind of jewellery that could be imagined, finished with a set of six broad flat areas placed around the throat, on which were drawn, into the metal, pictures in the form of relief's that seemed to describe creatures and creations of an aquatic nature that had no business on Earth. The simply odd mathematical and pictorial design suggested all kinds of things, too, not least unimaginable possibilities to do with space and time.

If one stared at the images for too long it could almost seem as though they were impossibly, madly, strange half-recollections of something that was hidden away deep in the black holes of the mind which always forgot what they once knew. As though a lost truth was buried so deep and far down that it wasn't ever a thing one wanted to remember. The whole design made one believe that something truly odd, awful and terribly, hideously evil in nature had both designed and forged the piece.

She rarely wore it and never did in "polite" company, peoples reactions to it could...vary, extensively. She'd had a group of men from the Roman Catholic Churches supposedly defunct Inquisition pay her a late-night visit with poisoned knives once, after being unwise enough to wear it to a rave party in Paris with Talia where she'd believed that no-one would be paying any real attention to personal decoration.

Six dead men, an apartment awash with blood and gore burnt out by her hand and a sudden need to leave Paris and stay away for a year after both the Police and French Intelligence looked into the matter had been her reward. She'd had to jump in her car covered in blood at three-thirty in the morning wearing a bed sheet like a Toga with only her purse and ID to hand, drive twenty miles like a lunatic to the nearest Safe House and burn her car well away, all before anyone put together her presence there and the killings in Paris. She'd then had to lie her way back into the good books of the Bulldog in a style which would have made Lucifer himself smile, using every single trick in the book, a massive amount of luck she hadn't deserved and as much of the truth as was possible. She could have died on the spot when he'd frowned at her-then he'd recommended she sleep on his office couch because she looked utterly exhausted.

On the plus side, the Choker had once bought her two women and one's boyfriend for a wildly passionate night when inhibitions had been checked at the door, along with clothes. They'd all been utterly entranced by it-mesmerised was a better word, in fact. It didn't hurt that she really preferred women, either. What the two women had been willing to do to earn her favour and learn some of what she could tell them about it…

_...Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn..._

A torch flared alight suddenly as Selene shut the boot of her car, Julia getting the hang of using the Tinderbox after two tries. Selene almost absently lit up one of her own, holding it high away and clear of her head to light the ground ahead of and in front of her with its distinctive, if limited, wash of light. She savoured the scent of real wood smoke in fresh air, the sight of a simple light provided by natural means. Humanity tended to forget the basic things-not her.

"Okay, not that I'm trying to sound freaked out or anything, Selene, but...well, this is creeping me out, a little. I've only ever seen you wear that Choker once before and that necklace never where you could be seen by anyone you didn't know. I look at that Choker for too long and it gives me a headache, just to begin with. We're in the middle of nowhere here, there's nothing and no one around for miles, literally, and your dressing up like your going to War in jewellery which would get you noticed in a Paris fashion show. Just _what_ the Hell are we doing out here in the dark and, more to the point, _where are we_ please?" asked an increasingly exasperated Julia.

Her nerves were showing, Selene thought. Julia never demanded anything when she could really absorb and plan through whatever was going on no matter who she was with, or what she was doing. Good. Here, that was healthy, it would keep you alive for one thing.

"Patience, Jules, patience. Now come along, if we get moving now we can make it by twelve" said Selene, shouldering her pack and stepping straight into the marsh. She should have fallen in, right up to her neck at least, but she simply understood exactly where to place her feet with uncanny skill and ease. It was like walking on water, but she knew solid ground underfoot for every step she took. One could learn surprising skills from the Old Ones...

Julia trusted her, so she stopped asking questions and gingerly followed, muttering under her breath. It didn't mask her nerves or her fears, but it was her way of dealing with those things so Selene let her go on. Some people compartmentalised, controlled and subdued fear, pain, loss, suffering-even ecstasy-but some dealt with it by letting it out a bit at a time and allowing their minds to work through whatever was disturbing them. Julia tended towards the former, at which she was superb, but made use of the latter when she was exceptionally nervous. Maybe the Chosen One of Rambaldi had some idea what was happening here? Probably not...

They waded through the salt marshes in the dead darkness for two miles before they reached the collapsing remains of the old railway embankments, a massively built up area of earth packed with stone to secure it that had carried railway trains and held rails well over a hundred years ago. It was still solid enough to hold their weight, so they made better time once they stepped onto it. It wasn't long after that, to Selene's secret delight and Julia's surprise, they first caught sight of the old town that the marsh reeds, rough landscape and deep darkness had hidden away from them.

Buildings which had been tall at the beginning of the twentieth century and the end of the nineteenth still largely stood, but several swayed like drunks in the wind and whole chunks, even entire floors of some of the buildings had long ago collapsed or fallen down into the narrow, shadowy streets. Most of the houses appeared to date from the early to mid nineteenth century, being made of worn, warped old wood and battered brick, old Georgian houses occasionally being evident amidst the general mass of sharp roofs, while towards the sea front three steeples were still half-evident. One was collapsed entirely, while the others had once held clock faces which had been smashed utterly, almost destroying the steeples in the process. Some houses were completely destroyed, having collapsed into wreckage and debris long ago, but some still looked almost inhabitable. No smoke rose from any chimneys, though.

A relatively well-preserved structure near the waterfront resembled an old factory, with the remains of white paint flecking off of rust and weatherworn brick walls. Just beyond it and extending into the harbour, which was choked with thick sand, a sturdy stone breakwater was evident. The town appeared utterly deserted, but a few lit wooden torches in places lighted the way. They walked on, into the town itself.

Yet again, the first thing to strike her was the almost overwhelmingly thick, heavy, nauseous stench of fish, a sickening odour that turned the stomach of anyone. She was used to it, but Julia wasn't-so the fact Julia went almost green but didn't throw up, despite looking decidedly ill, actually impressed her. They walked on, walking through roughly paved old streets where weather and old, long use had worn a thousand ruts and holes everywhere, where they could easily have twisted an ankle or even broken one without even noticing until it was too late. They passed the old Masonic Hall-Julia's head shifted slightly at that point, but the wooden sign and symbols, hieroglyphics and runes, had been worn away by wind and weather long ago so there was nothing to see. It didn't change the fact that something had caught her attention. They walked carefully, then they came to the old, half-destroyed church as the sound of running water began to sound, a rush which sounded out a nearby waterfall.

Selene smiled. This place brought back memories, good and bad. She could still taste the blood, feel the flesh in her teeth, hear the shouts and screams, the chants, the Prayers. Firm lips pressed on her body and her lips, skin brushed over and pressed against her own, slick with sweat, blood and-_other_ substances. Sometimes that skin, if you could call it that, had been scaled, webbed hands and long, thin fingers had known her flesh... This place reminded her of what she was now, it was almost as good as home in a way...

Julia glanced at the ruined old place, looked at Selene, then, without actually stopping, walked on. Selene hid a smile and followed, approving of Julia's decision. The church was a place where only initiates should go, at the very least. Of course, once anyone reached Selene's own level of understanding of and absorption in the ways of the Old Ones, questions about what you should and shouldn't do became irrelevant. You simply _were_.

Julia walked on as far as the waterfront, walked out onto the stone breakwater and stopped at its very extreme. Selene followed her, her easy, almost effortless distance-eating stride carrying her over the pavements, curbs, rough old seafront wall and heavily worn breakwater without a whisper of sound. When she stood next to Julia, she took in the twitching eyes and the minute tremble of the lower lip. The woman was nervous, understandably. Everyone was, on they're first time.

"Selene, I think its time you told me a little about this place. This is all downright Gothic just to begin with and the town looks like it hasn't been built in or added to since maybe the nineteenth century. There's no one around or anywhere near town that I've been able to spot yet there are lit wooden torches marking the street. Were on an old waterfront in a silted-in dock yet I haven't seen or heard any sign of shipping anywhere near here in all the time we've been here. That may not actually be that unusual, but I think there's more to it than that. This place stinks to Heaven of fish and sea smells, but there's no way ships have been coming here to unload anything for decades at least given what were standing by. Just where on Earth have you brought me? More to the point, just what happened here and when?" asked Julia, folding her arms over her chest in a definite act of nervousness and comforting.

"A long story. Its starts with a man called Obed Marsh about two hundred years ago now, no one alive is exactly sure when. He was the Captain and owner of a small fishing fleet that operated out of this town back then and was a successful man, but after the War in 1812 the town fell into disrepair, stopped growing and developing so much and, bit by bit, people and life began to leave it until fishing was all they had left. He went looking far and wide for either a great haul or treasure or another prize to restore his fortunes after a few years of little, but that wasn't what he found, or at least not exactly" said Selene, taking a deep breath as she began.

"In the South Sea Islands he met a people, all now dead, who had a way of getting massive numbers of fish all year round, the finest in gold and jewels of the kind no Human hand could design. They did it by striking a deal with...well, lets just call them a race of amphibious people known as the Deep Ones who could make it possible for this to happen all year around, regardless of weather, sea conditions or anything else. The jewels they made and traded to the humans they knew for...certain sacrifices.

Captain Obed found out what these people did to get what they had and made a deal with them to get part of what they did from the Deep Ones to gain his own needs fulfilled. Eventually, though, the other peoples around the islands found out what the people trading with the Deep Ones were doing and killed them all to put a stop to it. Obed tried to get around this by making direct contact with the Deep Ones and picking up where the others had left off, but the bloody fool didn't know what he was getting himself into" Selene continued, shaking her head slowly.

"He got what he wanted at first, but as time went on he had to give more and more to the Deep Ones to get it, when he discovered he hadn't even known half of what the old people who'd traded with the Deep Ones really had, let alone the full truth. Then he had to bring them here, physically, let them into his town to go on with it. Eventually the people of the town realised just what he was doing and forced him out, along with those with him, in 1846. It was too late. The Deep Ones came in massive force and killed most of the people of the town overnight, the only survivors were too young to understand what was going on so were left alone. After this Obed had no more problems, dying a death of natural causes some years later. The fact he'd brought something here he couldn't even understand the nature of was something he could have never put right anyway. The attack was explained as a Plague to the outside world, if you're wondering" said Selene, with a cool smile.

"After that not much changed until 1927, although every official who came here either never left, disappeared or went away and never came back. Not once did any of them report anything amiss here. No outsiders settled here, only natives remained and people stayed far away for the sake of rumour and possibility. That all changed when, in 1927, an explorer of sorts came here, discovered the truth and managed to escape despite every effort to stop him. The Army and the Police came and took away almost everyone in the town to camps in places unknown, from where none returned. A few new people tried to settle here anyway, but they all left and forgot this place in 1936 when people found out what had really been going on here and out at Devils Reef. It was taken off the maps the same year. I could tell you more, but you might not understand it. Do you want me to go on?" asked Selene, glancing over at Julia. Julia just nodded slowly, so Selene resumed her story.

"It was said that Captain Obed Marsh made a deal with Demons to get the gold, jewels and fish he did, how he did. It was said that when the tide was right he took ship out to Devils Reef and landed there and made deals, sealed bargains, paid the price. Ever after the town was never short of fish or money, but it was never told where they got it from, only that the waters around town were always swum by fish thickly and fast, all of the time. Even the people changed, they all became tall and thin, reclusive, grey-skinned, they seemed to be coming to resemble the fish they lived on and hunted.

More interestingly they worshipped a new name, nothing to do with any Christian God or anything like it. They called it the "Esoteric Order of Dagon" and practised rituals and Prayer millennia dead, held Orgies that would have shamed the Bacchae, sacrificed to their "Lord", knew again language and ways long, long forgotten. The Deep Ones knew human worship again and, in their city of Y'ha-nthlei, they wait in freedom, bask in the worship of their truth..." said Selene, slowly, before laughing quietly.

"_Ia! Ia! Cthulhu fhtagn! Ph'nglui mglw'naf h Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah-nagl fhtagn_-ah, what a strange and terrible place this is for us. _Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin_.Come, Julia, you haven't seen everything yet..." said Selene, striding forwards again. It took her a long moment to realise that the other woman wasn't following her.

"Selene...that sounds like either one of the most bizarre horror stories I've ever heard or simple lunacy inspired by urban myth and distorted legend. Either way, it can't be real...what did you just say, anyway? Why did you mention "Cthulhu"?" asked Julia, shaking her head slowly.

"As closely as I can manage, the direct translation is "In his house at R'lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming". There is a chant associated with what I said, but I can't tell you that simply because you want to know" replied Selene, before pausing to order her thoughts and make a more complete explanation.

"The Old Ones were called Star Born and came from the stars to Earth longer ago than even Rambaldi could imagine, travelling between planets like you and I would between cities. They fought a War with those already here, called the Eternal Ones, before making a Peace and building their cities, R'lyeh and others. They left marks of their passing and presence everywhere, as statues on Pacific islands, in runes in northern lands, as hieroglyphics south, in passages to nowhere and gates to nothing everywhere. It all ended when some unknown catastrophe struck the entire planet, destroyed almost everything and sank the last city, R'lyeh, deep beneath the Pacific.

The only reason Cthulhu and others survive in R'lyeh is because of Cthulhu's spells, I understand, but the deathless ones in China could tell you more. The Old Ones can only be heard in dreams now, sometimes, but in very rare cases, when a remarkable mind arrives, they can be perceived directly and truly. The last one I know of who heard them true was Grigori Rasputin, the "Mad Monk", but his mind broke trying to perceive them and his madness got him killed in 1916. You can read parts of the _Necronomicon_ in a way that teaches you, too, such as:

That is not dead which can eternal lie And with strange aeons even death may die

Makes you think, doesn't it? To answer your question, though, the words I used, _Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin_, were the original "writing on the wall". They appeared on a wall in Babylon during Belshazzar's feast in Babylon and were translated for him by the prophet Daniel. They foretold Belshazzar's death-he died the same night. This place has been lost for far longer than a single night, though" said Selene, shaking her head. Old man Marsh...

"This is crazy...Selene, how can I take this seriously? I'm in an abandoned town in the middle of nowhere lit only by wooden torchlight with the twenty-first century maybe hundreds of miles away. Your talking about some kind of pantheon of old Gods you believe in, I think, just like I think your telling me so much detail about it all that your making me start to see shapes and believe in things which just aren't real. I'm sorry, but no, this is ridiculous, you won't even tell me the name of this town and you've brought me here in the night to spook me-" Julia said, talking and talking like she had nothing else to do. Her eyes were darting around constantly, though, her fingers twitching, her hands stopped and started shaking.

Selene wondered if Julia even knew that she was literally shaking with nerves, let alone the fact that she was babbling, which she almost never did. Didn't believe it? Wouldn't believe it, more like. Julia Thorne was the complete competent professional, a ruthless killer with ice in the veins and pain for a heart. She could look someone in the eyes and smile even while she slit their throat with a straight razor and wouldn't loose her composure in the middle of a War Zone. Whether or not she knew it, this place was getting to her-

_...Rrrurrrppp..._

Julia almost collapsed in shock, spinning around like a whirligig before coming completely around to face Selene again. Her eyes opened so wide Selene honestly wondered if they were going to stop before she went blind for a moment, then she realised that Julia was staring at something right behind her. She felt what seemed like fingers brush through her hair...

_...Rrrruuurrrppp..._

The Deep One had gone, as Julia's backwards steps attested too. Selene didn't try to hide her smile this time, it was deserved.

"Not Gods, Julia, trust me on that. I take it you got a good look at him?" she asked, raising an eyebrow as she looked Julia full in the eyes.

"Selene, I...that...I just saw something which looked like a hunchbacked man with claws and fins for hands and feet and no hair _hop_ behind you like a frog, completely naked and grey as stone. Nothing looked _right_... What the Hell _is_ this place? No more evasions" asked Julia, although the normal force she could place in her voice was lacking, as was the confidence which was _always_ there. She looked pale in the torchlight, shaken. It had taken long enough...

"This place, Julia? Since you've heard me out, I might as well answer you. Innsmouth, Julia, this is _Innsmouth_. Ring any bells? No? Oh, well, come on then, one last thing to see yet..." said Selene, striding off towards the outskirts of town, around the blocked harbour. Hesitant, almost nervous steps followed slowly behind her this time.

When they got to the real waterfront, Julia just stopped and stared. Even with no moonlight or stars, Devils Reef stood out against dark water like a Comet in space. Huge, massively thick and dense, a darker black than the deepest of storm clouds, a truer colour than the truth of any mans Soul Selene liked to think. Pitted with caves and openings to nowhere, Devils Reef stood a mile off shore and was so huge even storm seas wouldn't cover it fully. The great reef was majestic and awful in its terrible nature, it almost seemed to reach out and draw in the eyes, making the heart ache in the chest with a strange pain. It was like an outcrop of something which should have been forgotten thrust up and above the surface to remind everyone...

"That's Devils Reef, wonder why they called it that? Here, help me with this" said Selene, scrambling down the low, rough Cliffside to a tiny natural harbour. Reaching up to above the natural surge waterline she pulled down from its incline hole hiding place, with some effort due to its fastenings, a collapsed wood and rubber dingy. Julia scrambled down and helped her get it clear, but baulked when she realised what they were assembling.

"Hold on, I'm not going out there in _that_. That place looks like an outpost of Hell on Earth and anyway, it's a mile out to sea. If we try to row there with the currents we'll get swept out to sea" she complained, even as Selene shook her head.

"I could swim out there if I had to, Julia, I've swum the English Channel and I know this place better than you ever want to. Besides, this dingy has a small motor which is enough to get us out there and back easily. Just wait and see" replied Selene, her replying evidently doing nothing to aid Julia's nerves as the other woman shut her eyes, visibly composing herself and forcing herself to calm down. To her credit, though, she still managed to help assemble the dingy.

A quarter-hour later, they launched and made their way to Devils Reef with some care, Selene carefully guiding the dingy in so that they could tie it off at a safe place before disembarking. After they landed it was an easy trek for people with their skills to reach the highest point, which also contained the deepest cave entrance. There was writing all around the caves entrance, carved directly into weathered stone, but Julia clearly had no idea what the strangely fresh designs were, even though she ran a finger over them to test their depth and freshness.

"These are as good as new, Selene. Did _you_ put them here? If you didn't, who did?" asked Julia, staring hard at Selene. Selene just shook her head.

"No one. _Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn_. Were here, now you see for yourself, Julia" said Selene, looking down into the dead-dark cold of the depths of Devils Reef with her eyes wide open.

On impulse, she strode over to Julia and kissed her on the lips-passionately. The startled Julia responded, briefly, before Selene pulled back and away just as sharply. The sea-stench of fish was far too strong and getting stronger. They were here...

"Selene, what the Hell was that? You've _never_-I..." Julia began, but her voice trailed off as she spotted something. Her eyes moved around sharply as she took a step back, then another, another-she stopped, lost all colour.

Then she screamed, even as Selene felt the fingers in her hair again...

_FBI regional headquarters, LA, 2007, five days ago_

"Kate?" asked a mans voice-Gibbs, she abruptly realised as her mind was drawn back to the present with what was almost a physical jolt. She was seated in the passenger seat of a black FBI-issue car, which Gibbs was driving. They were together since she'd suggested that she'd be of most use working with him and his team, given that she'd physically met Bourne and had read everything MI6 and MI5 had on him over and over again to the extent that she could recite every detail verbatim. They were outside FBI headquarters already, she must have let her mind drift unconsciously as she was relaxed by the steady rumble of the cars passage through the streets, the purr of its engine...

Why did it seem unlikely anything relaxing would have conjured _that_ particular memory, though? Admittedly, what had occurred at the church afterwards had actually been far more than pleasant-she could still taste Julia's lipstick and her blood, feel the heat of the candles illuminating and warming her bare skin, trace the firm, agile fingers that probed and caressed her body, recall the screams as they'd writhed together atop the Altar-but that had been _after_ Devils Reef...

She had a far better idea of how memory worked than most people, it wasn't common knowledge but then nor was most of what she knew. Regardless of Gibbs interruption, the memory had been very specific in nature and timing, ending at a specific time and point. That sort of recollection, particularly when unexpected and unprompted, meant one thing: her unconscious was trying to tell her conscious mind something important the only way it could, something directly linked to that night. But what?

Certainly, Julia-_Sydney_-had been marked that night, but she knew for a fact that the woman had no knowledge at all of what had happened, no memory, not any more. That made the whole event pointless since the mark had been in the mind, not the body, no matter what had happened later. So what was it all about? Was she being told to take Julia-Sydney back there? No, that wasn't it either, she'd had the Dreams in every form many times before, she knew when she was being reached or called. This wasn't either of those things...

"Sorry, I was miles away. Long flight and jetlag, black coffee with two sugars will fix it. Is everyone already here?" she replied, shaking her head to clear it as she looked up at Gibbs. He was parking the car in the underground parking lot, so took a moment before replying.

"Yes, I told them to be. You should put on the Visitor Pass I gave you now-that's right. I'll get you that coffee while you introduce yourself. Unless you want me to do it?" asked Gibbs, stepping out of the car and locking it with a deadlock electronic beeper even as he attached his own ID to his jacket.

"Why spoil the surprise? I'll try not to look bored when they try to impress me. Anyone cute on your team? I could use a warm bed at some point and its easier to get one if someone's already in it" replied Kate, with a smirk as Gibbs expression almost froze solid. Then he actually smiled.

"Two you'll like, but Kate isn't Gay and Denton would screw anything with a pulse for fun as long as its over eighteen and of the same species. Ignore that and you'll get along fine. He's one hell of a hunter, but don't tell him I said that" said Gibbs, pressing the elevator call sign. A bell rang once to announce its arrival and they stepped inside as the door opened, Gibbs pressing the button for the top floor.

"Don't worry, I won't. Honestly, though, right now I could survive a soft carpet in an old building next to a train station. Do you have a couch in your office here? I could collapse on that for three hours or so after we get through with the meet and greet" said Kate.

"Yes, as a matter of fact your welcome to it" replied Gibbs, even as the bell sounded again and the doors opened on the top floor, showing a long grey-painted corridor with several unremarkable doors on either side and a hard tile floor. He strode forwards down the hall, took a sharp left down another corridor with her beside him, then turned right towards a pair of large double doors and stopped.

"Main Conference Room and elected meeting place, workplaces are elsewhere, you can see the rest when were through here. I'll be back in a minute, don't hold back" said Gibbs, then he turned and strode off. She smiled, pushed the doors open and stepped inside. She had to wonder if he knew Gibbs knew just how much like the Bulldog he was in nature. Fast, sharp, precise, informative, effective, direct and blunt as a boulder, the ultimate professional. You either liked him or you didn't, there was no middle ground and his only satisfaction came from a job well done. Personally, she found the approach stimulating and appreciated its use.

She found herself in a broad room with a big, circular brown wooden table dominating it. Free-screen Laptops were set up at precisely half the twelve cushioned high-back seats, five of which were occupied. Two women and three men stared at her with varying degree's of interest, although one gave her a look which made her feel as though she'd arrived covered in blood. Obviously, that woman knew what the 101'st Brigade did...

A man in his mid thirties stood up and cleared his throat to get everyone's attention. Six foot two, a lean one-eighty in weight almost all muscle, a face defined by high cheekbones and soft brown eyes, curly ash-blond hair thick on his head, he looked younger than he was and was handsome with it. She'd done her research, he had to be Matthew Denton, the ex-Cop recruited right out of the NYPD Major Crimes Unit by Gibbs in 1999 who had since risen to become the team's senior field officer below Gibbs.

His loose-fitting white shirt, tight brown trousers that showed off hard-muscled legs and sharp brown shoes only reinforced the image of the Cop who had once closed Cases so quickly and successfully, never failing to get a conviction after his work went to Court, that he'd had all the time in the world to seduce and screw his way through almost every female officer, member of the public and public servant he'd run across-including a few Married one's. He'd reportedly quit the Married ones after one's husband shot up his car with a shotgun having beaten him unconscious with a baseball bat first, but it hadn't cut down on his rate of conquests. He had a talent for digging up the evidence no one else could find, getting Confessions from the most dangerous criminals imaginable with just a few words in the ear and having people tied in a knot around his little finger five minutes after meeting them.

She almost smiled. She wondered where his charms would get him with someone who was used to and expecting of pleasures and delicacies he couldn't even begin to imagine...

"Okay, you're the MI6er, right? Good, okay then. I'm Matthew Denton, senior field agent. This little ball of energy to my far left is Abby Chase, our resident mad Scientist, you'll like her once you get used to her" he began, pointing to a woman of about his age but who was eight inches shorter, with long black hair tied in a ponytail, grey eyes sharp with sparkling intelligence and a rounded face best described as cute. A brilliant woman who was so talented with forensics and computer work people often suggested she could have identified skeletal remains given a day, a Laptop and a set of Dental records all by herself, she was covered with tattoo's of all sizes, shapes and descriptions, including one massive one that was only half visible over her shirt collar that appeared to be an example of the Eye in the Pyramid, the presumed Illuminati symbol. She was frumpily dressed in cream blouse, grey sweater, torn blue jeans and battered looking white trainers. It suited her, somehow. Catching Kate's eye, she winked without hesitation. Kate found herself liking the older woman immediately.

"The man to my immediate left is Joshua Barnett, the rookie. Don't let the name fool you, he's never read the Bible" continued Denton, which earned him an irate look from the younger man.

Her background research served her well, so she tuned out the rest of what Denton said about Barnett. Chubby but physically strong, five and three-quarter feet tall with a smooth, round face, light brown eyes and hair, he wore a light brown suit, grey tie and cream shirt which didn't do much for his body. In his early thirties, he was a five year gone MIT graduate, top of his class, recruited by the FBI three years ago after a stint in computer programming for Microsoft to be an Analyst. Two years after that he'd applied for Field Work having completed the requisite training and been allowed out under supervision-Gibbs, that was. On his first actual mission he'd prevented a missile attack on an American Destroyer and the families of the crew visiting them in port by Hacking into a booby-trapped Laptop used by the terrorist leader and self-destructing the missile, all done while under heavy fire in the field. Gibbs had recruited him the very next day.

"This one here to my immediate right is Thomas Harris-pardon the name-our Doctor at hand" continued Denton. An older man, Harris was easily twenty-five years older than Denton, around Gibbs age in fact. A slightly podgy man running to fat in his middle years, he was an inch short of six feet tall. His face was long and almost hangdog, his once-blond hair touched by a large amount of grey and mostly gone, not helped by the undertaker black suit, white shirt and black tie he wore. Eyes half-hidden under circular slim glasses were a sharp grey-blue, but trying to read him through them was like trying to dig through a glacier with only fingernails.

An ageing man who'd seen almost as much human suffering and death as anyone ever should, he hid what he thought behind ice chips that passed for windows which only rarely thawed to expose more pain. A brilliant all-round Physician and Scientist who'd never let the fact affect his professional judgement, despite occasional significant personal lapses, he'd worked for one Government Agency or another for thirty years and never, ever failed to be utterly professional and reliable at the job. He'd known Gibbs for over twenty years, which was how they'd ended up working together full-time in their later years. Gibbs always managed to find him "Interesting" cases to work on.

"Oh yes, one last one. This very nice young lady on my far right is Katherine Larien, field agent" said Denton, in a way that got him a scowl and a glare from the young woman in question. Long, loose hair fell to her waist, so dark auburn that it was almost red, while jade-green eyes gleamed in a fine-featured face that was easily beautiful. Long limbs and a slim body did little to conceal well-developed, powerful muscle tone, while full, firm curves pressed against a cream blouse and black trousers, hard black shoes suggesting that she was well used to and very able at, literally and otherwise, kicking someone in the backside to get the job done if necessary-as well as running very fast, her five-eight height not hurting at all when she wanted to move fast and hit hard. In her early thirties, she'd joined the Secret Service straight out of University at twenty-one and enjoyed a meteoric rise through the ranks thanks to a take-no-prisoners utterly professional approach to the job, exceptional mind and superb physical skills. She'd been on the Presidents Detail by twenty-eight-when it had all gone to Hell.

She'd begun a sexual relationship with a very senior officer from the DOD who she'd met on Air Force One-who had literally dropped dead soon afterwards. While under investigation she'd met Gibbs, called in because of a possible threat to the President-and Gibbs had saved the Presidents life with her help during a shoot-out on Air Force One, when it had been discovered one of the Presidents catering staff was a professional assassin who'd been hired to kill him and make it look natural by parties unknown. She'd Quit the Secret Service afterwards, humiliated if not disgraced by the "Outing" of her unauthorised relationship-and promptly been recruited by Gibbs.

What wasn't public knowledge, which had taken some extensive probing to discover, was the fact that Katherine had saved Gibbs life three years earlier by getting between him and a bullet-which had hit her in the head. The bullet had punched right through her skull and torn into her brain, left her in a deep Coma, seemingly a vegetable. She'd woken up almost a year later, taken most of another to fully recover and only been back on the job for a year. Every single Doctor who'd examined her had stated that there was no way she'd simply woken up normal, but she had, despite an agonising long recovery. Her unusually long hair was grown out long and thick to cover up the massive scalp and skull scarring-not that it hurt her looks at all, not that Kate had any problems with scars...

Something told Kate that, bar Gibbs, even including Abby, she was going to get on best with Katherine. They had far more in common than Katherine could possibly imagine...

"If I can say it first, very pleased to meet you by the way. Where's Gibbs, though?" continued Denton, looking puzzled that Gibbs was still nowhere to be seen. She ignored him, rounding the table to get the attention of all of them at once as she stood as directly in front of them as possible.

"My name is Katya Antonius Aquila, Kate to my friends. I work for MI6, yes, but I hunt creatures you call people all over the world on a daily basis and do whatever I _have_ to do to bring them in, or down-or simply deal with them, permanently. I capture or I kill, very simple very final, don't ever ask me how or why if you don't want to know. I am unlike anyone you have ever met or ever will again, if you are all very lucky, so understand that I will say all of this only _once_" said Kate, meeting the eyes of one after the other with a look which stopped them all cold. Denton was going to say something, but one look at her expression made him think better of it.

"In the wild there are two kinds of animals, predators and prey. In this world we live in there is no difference, it just takes some people longer than others to realise that. The reality of the situation here is that we are up against a predator literally designed and built to be a killer, we are fighting a creature which has no concept at all of survival beyond the need to open its eyes tomorrow and still be mobile. Any idea you have about no one killing more than they can eat? Forget it, all of it. Jason Bourne is death itself come free from a place so cold and dark you have to look up to see Hell, he'll slaughter his way through us all to get what he wants, who he wants, when he wants. He'll kill everyone he has to, this is _fact_. The only way you'll beat him is to be smarter than him, because he is the Nemesis of life itself where he lives and that is in violence. I can say all of this because I've met him while all of you haven't, you understand me? Questions?" said Kate.

No one spoke, then Gibbs arrived with her coffee and took in the dead silence of his team facing her. "Well, I see you've all met now..." he said, slowly.

/End of Chapter 8. All Reviews welcomed/.


	10. Chapter 10

For all disclaimers: See Part 1. For this Part, however, a special mention is necessary. I do not own or lay claim to any characters or anything directly connected to the Covert One series created by Robert Ludlum and various authors, I'm just borrowing them for this story so please don't sue me.

All Reviews welcomed.

**The Last Day**

_APO headquarters, five days ago_

The central video screen was active and the files uploaded, so Sloane pressed the remote. The screen lit up, showing the face of an old man in his mid seventies with short-cut white hair, sharp grey eyes and a heavily wrinkled face. He was tall and thin from what could be seen of the rest of him in the picture, his wasting ageing body making him appear even older than he actually was. Sloane paused a moment out of simple respect, not that he'd ever admit to his reasons, then began.

"Joseph Frost, ex-CIA. Now US Ambassador to Vietnam and semi-retired. I do not doubt that none of you have heard of him or know him, but he is critical to the current mission so a breakdown of critical points is in order" said Sloane, pressing another switch. The screen view changed to a younger version of Frosts face, with less lines, grey hair still streaked with light brown and considerably more muscle, one where he looked about sixty. The picture filled half the screen, the rest contained his Service Record, parts of which were still marked Classified.

Dixon and Nadia took in the details, but Nadia couldn't prevent here eyes from widening slightly at the massive amount of data being displayed. It was Dixon who asked the question, though.

"He joined up at 20 in 1950 and stayed with the Agency until early Retirement in 1990 on medical grounds? He did _forty_ years? How does someone like _that_ just disappear without anyone ever even talking about him? I know a lot of people in and out of the Intelligence world these days and I haven't heard that name, not even once. What did he do, annoy all of the wrong people?" asked Dixon.

"No, he saved the lives of everyone in Washington D.C. Everyone in this room has at least Level 5 Clearance, so I can debrief you on exactly what happened" said Sloane, pausing to make sure that he had all of the details right.

"In 1990 the Cold War was over, the USSR was collapsing, the KGB disintegrating. The Iron Curtain was already gone. A quiet War which had started in 1945 and never been formally declared was coming to a final close, but elements from within the senior ranks of eastern block and USSR Intelligence Agencies and Military structures were determined to prevent the final victory of the west, as they saw it, by any means necessary. The CIA saw them coming, of course, but matters are never that simple" Sloane said, highlighting a Classified Operation listed as **Operation: Protean** in 1990 on the screen-Frost's last, Nadia noticed.

"KGB Safe houses were blown all over the world as the political influence of the USSR disintegrated, but they still had Agents in place, including Sleepers, as well as allies the CIA couldn't watch all of the time with the world changing as fast as it was then. They used this against American intelligence to force us to run down every possible lead creating threats of every kind imaginable, some real, against both Allied nations and American interests and territory. By doing this, they almost fatally distracted the attention of everyone involved from the real threat: a Nerve Gas bomb" Sloane continued, looking closely at Nadia and Dixon. Dixon just stared back at him-in their SD-6 days it was quite possible he would have been ordered to carry out attacks like this against the "enemies" of the USA, they were both well aware. There was no point at all in denying it, so Sloane didn't even try.

"The only person who saw through it all was Joseph Frost. He defied orders, took his team with him and tracked the intended attack through every obstacle and danger put in his way by both enemy and ally action until he came face to face with a weapon of Mass Destruction concealed in a warehouse in D.C. which was going to be detonated over the city that same day. After a shoot-out which left him badly wounded, he ordered his entire team to retreat and deactivated the bomb single-handedly, receiving what should have been a fatal dose in the process. He didn't die, but never fully recovered and was forced into early Retirement. He moved into State Department political business instead and became an Ambassador" said Sloane, pausing before moving the screen display to the most current developments.

"Over the last seventeen years he has cultivated several useful contacts in a variety of locations, including Vietnam, adding to a strong list of Contacts and resources he built up over four decades with the CIA. Most importantly, he has been Ambassador to Vietnam for the past three years and served there while still with the CIA from 69' to 74', where he served with, among others, the original Agent Alex Conklin. He has been a part of the Political landscape and underbelly of Vietnamese life for well over thirty years and knows it better than almost anyone, so if anyone _can_ answer our questions about what happened to Jack and how "Jade" is connected to all of this, he can. Or he will be able to find out. Which makes this simple" Sloane said, tossing Dossiers down on the table in front of Dixon and Nadia, who immediately picked them up and started reading them.

"You will be going in as senior Diplomatic Staff sent on an urgent mission directly from Washington, concerning matters which can only be dealt with by Ambassador Frost concerning questions relating to serious security concerns at the Embassy compound itself. State has already been briefed and all relevant paperwork is in place, no questions will be asked. Dixon will head the mission, Nadia will assist, objective is to gather the information without raising any questions, establish Jack Bristow's location and status and then position yourselves to monitor while awaiting an analysis of the situation and new orders. Questions?" asked Sloane.

Dixon glanced over at Nadia, then back at Sloane. "Just one. I don't mean to suggest in any way that Nadia is not suited to or is incapable of carrying out this assignment, I merely question whether her age might be an issue. I'm the right age to be a career Diplomat of some standing, but Nadia will at best be viewed by most people as a senior assistant, which will theoretically keep her out of closed meetings between the Ambassador and myself. How are we addressing this?" he asked.

Sloane just smiled. "Sometimes, Marcus, you just have to let Politics do the work for you..."

_The American Embassy, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, four days ago_

Dixon and Nadia were collected at the airport by a Limo sent directly from the Embassy, an efficient driver getting them to their destination with a maximum of speed and a minimum of fuss as he wove between slow-moving chaotic traffic ranging from trucks and cars to livestock and bicycles. Except to confirm that he was the man they had been told to expect would pick them up, which he proved beyond doubt with a Code Word and ID Dixon could tell for certain were genuine, he didn't speak at all on the journey.

It didn't bother Dixon, who'd been to Vietnam before, or Nadia, who hadn't and was busy looking out of the windows in all directions trying to take in everything at once. Her distraction stopped her from seeing Dixon's slight smile at her enthusiasm, though. When they got to the Embassy proper, though, the unexpected occurred, which was, in Dixon's professional opinion, never a good sign on what should have been a simple mission-not that there ever was such a thing.

Armed guards were on patrol inside the Embassy grounds, more of them than was normal, all of them carrying automatic weapons and looking about alertly. An area near the tall wall which surrounded the entire Embassy was cordoned off with yellow tape and what appeared to be Military Police dressed in Forensics uniforms were combing the enclosed area. Closer to the Embassy itself, near the end of the drive which curved around an ornamental fountain in front of the main building, three figures were standing, all of them dressed in Military uniforms, one a senior officer. Two of them, including the officer, were apparently interrogating the third.

Dixon was a former Marine Sniper who had been recruited out of the Service into SD-6 by Jack Bristow almost fifteen years ago now, which meant that he had a much better eye than was normal even for an experienced CIA Agent where the insignia of unit and rank in the Military was concerned. This only made him more concerned as he took in the sight in front of him as they pulled up to the grey-stone embassy building, all three storeys of it with armoured glass windows, double door entrance that could be sealed solid from the inside and flat, broad helicopter landing pad roof. Marine barracks were away from the main buildings, easily evident to Dixon's practised eye, but he didn't need to do a head count to realise that the guard had to have been doubled.

The young man being questioned was dressed in the uniform of a Marine private and looked upset, if not nervous. Dixon could have lip read what was being said, but suspected that it had nothing to do with their mission so elected not to. The second figure was a low-ranking officer in his early thirties with blonde hair and grey eyes who probably thought he had far more to offer than he actually did, also a Marine, but Dixon picked out the specific uniform insignia easily. The officer was a JAG soldier, from the Judge Advocate Generals office, a branch of the Military which dealt with crimes committed by Military personnel. Given the evident circumstances, a JAG officer being present wasn't that much of a surprise-but the last figure made things change.

Tall, close to six feet, lean and slender with hard muscle and a curvaceous physique that her uniform did little to conceal, the last figure was an easily beautiful woman with curly dark red-gold hair bundled up under a uniform cap and piercing green eyes. Either just into her forth decade or very close to it, her uniform was that of a Marine but her rank was very senior, he recognised the markings of a full Colonel, no less. JAG would never send so senior an officer out to investigate some common misdemeanour or petty crime, her junior partner would have been passed that duty without question. That meant something significant was going on, or had occurred, which made it their business since they were going to be quartered in the Embassy until they concluded their "conversations" with Ambassador Frost. He made a mental note to look into it.

"Dixon? What is it? Is there something about those soldiers I should know?" whispered Nadia, since they weren't using their real names for the mission. Instead, she was "Helena Santi" and he was "Mark Fullman". He considered for a moment whether or not to alert her to his suspicions or order her to concentrate on the mission while he dealt with the matter, but experience and intelligence told him she needed to know everything he knew so that they could function most effectively as a team.

Odd in a way, really, he'd have told Sydney or Vaughn everything without even thinking about it, but he still paused after months of working with Nadia, despite being unquestionably sure that he could trust her with his life-and anything else, for that matter-without question. She was nothing like her biological father or mother, even though she certainly possessed the ruthlessness and natural skill developed by training and experience that both Sloane and Irina had so formidably demonstrated time and again-but he still couldn't see past the fact that she was Sloane's child, he supposed... He was being much worse than unfair with that, though. The fact was, Sydney wouldn't be who or what she was without the influence of both of her father and her mother over the years. Yet he trusted Sydney more than anyone else at all he'd ever met or known, if he died tomorrow he'd have trusted her with everything in his life including his children. Sydney and Nadia were half-sisters... So why couldn't he move past the fact that Sloane was only one of her parents, not her role model, mentor or really any influence at all-yet, at any rate? He didn't honestly know, which perturbed him.

If he had to guess, it was Sloane's fault, nothing to do with Nadia at all. He'd worked for SD-6 for almost twelve years without ever realising what it was he was really doing, who it was he was actually working for, under Sloane. That betrayal had hit him, cut him, deep, deep down inside. He'd told Sloane that he'd simply lacked the imagination then to believe that a man like Sloane could ever actually exist, let alone carry out the actions the man had while lying to the faces of so many people. He'd said that he wouldn't ever make that mistake again-and he wouldn't. None of this changed the fact that, particularly after the assassination of his Wife, he'd almost lost forever that part of him that let him believe in anything greater than himself, in a cause worth fighting and dying for, the ability to trust at all. He'd never really recovered, suspected that he wouldn't fully recover ever in reality, so he only honestly trusted people he'd known for years he was sure had no ulterior motives or agendas he needed to be concerned about-Jack and Sydney Bristow, along with Marshall, were the only exceptions. Nadia was the child of the man who'd made him this way...

He shook his head slightly to clear his mind, forcing himself to focus. When you were alone and not on a mission was the time for personal issues. He looked round at Nadia, sorting his thoughts out before he spoke.

"The two officers there are JAG personnel, one of them very senior, so we need to keep our eyes peeled because JAG doesn't send senior officers out to investigate misfiring weapons and soldiers oversleeping their Watch detail. Something's going on, we may need to find out what before it finds out about us" said Dixon, carefully, as they stepped out of the vehicle.

"Understood" said Nadia, before they walked on into the Embassy and went to the Reception desk. On learning that the Ambassador was not immediately available, they were taken to their rooms to drop off their bags and settle in.

Utilitarian but comfortable, all he needed in Dixon's opinion. There was a bedroom, bathroom and small living room, a desk and bed, computer socket for his Laptop, a large television with access to all of the News channels and certain luxuries like a drinks bar. Deciding to settle in properly since he couldn't be sure how long they'd be waiting, Dixon poured himself a watered down glass of Brandy, sniffed it, loosened his shirt collar and tie then put CNN on before sitting down to catch up on the news. A seasoned drinker who fully understood his limits, he knew exactly how much he could take and how fast. If the call through came, he'd be up and ready to go in moments.

_APO headquarters_

Dr. Ranjeev Syal was an India man with dark brown skin, black hair and chestnut eyes of thirty-five years of age who had worked for APO since its creation by Director Chase. An extremely professional, efficient and highly skilled Doctor despite his youth, he was cleared for any information he might need to know inside of APO that wasn't classified above Level 5. He was also a qualified Psychologist who could serve as Counsellor for APO personnel as and when necessary since normal channels for relieving psychological stress caused by the job, in the form of professionals employed or recommended by the Agency, simply were not allowed to even discover the existence of Black Ops organisations like APO-or Project Treadstone. Dr. Judy Barnett, who had previously counselled everyone who worked in APO except Nadia, was the only CIA non-Agent employee who was cleared for such things-yet even she was no longer available, since every Agent who worked for APO officially no longer worked for the Agency. This had initially irked Sydney Bristow, but she'd quickly warmed to the charming, professional Dr. Syal. That did not mean, however, that she appreciated being poked and prodded by him, both mentally and physically, even under orders.

"Look, is all this really necessary? I tell you, I'm fine, I don't even have any bruises to show for it. It may be kinda weird, but there has to be an explanation for it that can be run down another time. I really do have a job to get on with?" said Sydney, trying to out-stare Sloane, which she was well aware was an exercise in futility, as he watched Dr. Syal carry out his examinations in APO's infirmary.

"_I never touch before I taste, but I always have what I want_. This before the woman in question apparently stabbed you and tasted the blood on the knife in front of you, Sydney? I have to ask, I'm afraid...did you recognise her? Do you know where you were? Is there anything in the memory that reminds you of anything at all you can relate to? Can you attach any significance to what I presume was some kind of ritual? Can you determine for certain whether or not this was a memory or a daydream of some kind putting together fragments of recollection from whatever it was you had done to erase your memories of those two years? There are tests I can run-" Dr. Syal said, but Sydney cut him off with a sharp glare.

"I'm sure, that was...nothing I _could_ imagine. I can't even begin to imagine why I would have an armed naked woman with me, wherever I was, let alone why I'd willingly let her stab me. As for why Toni Cummings would call me? I really, really do not know. I barely know the woman and haven't seen or heard from her in almost a year now. I don't even know how she got my number, but then she _is_ a Securities systems superwoman, I'm sure it wouldn't have been that hard for her" said Sydney, almost grinding her teeth before pausing to take a deep, calming breath.

"Look, I reported all of this already, I'm physically and psychologically fine, you can see that right now. I'm sure that there are all sorts of tests you can and should run, too, but now simply is not the time Schedule them properly and I'll be there. I really _do_ need to get back to work, you know" said Sydney, trying to conceal the impatience in her voice with limited success. They were looking for her father and hunting someone as dangerous as Jason Bourne, but she had to stop for _this_? This was ridiculous, she was fine and that was it unless she started suffering some kind or kinds of complications, in which case she'd be the first person to ask Dr. Syal to take her off duty until she was completely cleared-

"Sydney, this is only partially to do with your current state of physical and mental health. I presume you understand?" Sloane broke in, his calm, cool, measured voice throwing cold water on her rapidly fraying temper and restoring her self-control in an instant-probably as he'd intended it to. She always, always had to be on her guard around him, had to keep her wits about her and her temper in check, no matter what, or she knew that he'd use all of that against her and get whatever he wanted out of and from her before she ever realised what she'd done or where it had gone. He was always the best and only reminder she needed to stay cool, calm and collected at all times, no matter what. She had very little doubt that he knew that, too.

"What, you think that because I might just have managed to partially recall something that happened during my "lost" two years I'm suddenly going to suffer a Nervous Breakdown or just loose it? Please, that won't happen and we both know it. Why? It hasn't happened in eighteen months, at all, no matter what injuries, beatings, drugs and other physical as well as psychological trauma I've been exposed to. No matter who or what every single one of my senses have been exposed to. Despite the fact my mind has been literally bombarded by an entire world of madness and insanity for _eighteen_ months after I lost two years of my _life_. If everything that has happened since didn't do it, why would anything like this, no matter what "Miracle" might have restored me?" snapped Sydney, not happy with the way Sloane simply presumed she hadn't thought through the facts.

Of course, she had left out little details like the fact she was absolutely certain she'd been in bed with the woman who'd stabbed her and then kissed her, which meant they'd been sleeping together...which left her feeling almost nauseous all by itself. She'd fooled around in University just like any other eighteen-year-old girl with an imagination, but hadn't liked it and early on decided that men were most certainly her choice-Anna Espinosa was the exception, very much so. She liked the way men smelt, felt and even touched her sometimes, the fact they didn't treat her gently more often than not, as though they could sense the danger she was used to and that she liked it a little rough. Until she understood or could at least grasp just what she'd been doing with whoever the woman had been or was, whenever it had been, that stayed with her.

_Cole._

"_Killer" Cole._

_The Saint of Killers._

Of course, she hadn't mentioned the fact that she'd recognised her apparent saviour either, which was unlike her and quite possibly simply stupid. Why hadn't she, though? She'd sensed an edge of her fear in her thoughts whenever she thought about seeing him, as though she knew him, knew things about him even she wouldn't take lightly, but that wasn't it. She'd been scared before, plenty of times, by professionals on several occasions, simple fear wasn't stopping her. No, it was almost as if she didn't want to give him up to the CIA, as though something she knew but didn't remember told her not to for some reason that was good enough to override her professional instincts.

Just what was going through her mind to make her even have thoughts like this? She'd given up everything for the CIA, it was more than her job, it was her life. It gave her purpose and meaning, like Nadia and Vaughn, sometimes even her father, gave her something to live for outside of work...

"I think what's different now encompasses two things. First, the fact that you received massive cranial trauma during the defeated ambush in LA. Whether you realise it or not, a three-inch splinter of steel from the car that ran you down penetrated your skull and injured your brain when it blew up, even though there is no longer any sign of injury or even scarring. Second, I now think that Julia Thorne might have known a great deal about and been considerably more closely linked with certain groups, organisations and individuals than anyone realises given the current activities of some of those same groups and organisations. You tell me, what do "The Styx Sisters" mean to you?" asked Sloane, hands behind his back as he stared at her intently. Mentioning Julia Thorne's name and the Styx Sisters in close conjunction was a mistake, a serious mistake where Sydney Bristow was concerned, but Arvin Sloane had no more way of knowing that than Sydney Bristow did. What was worse, neither of them could have possibly imagined the results of what seemed such a simple enquiry being what they were with Sydney.

Sydney blinked, shook her head-then her eyes opened wide as she heard voices she didn't recognise neither Sloane or Dr. Syal reacted to. She felt something shift behind her eyes, inside her head, nothing physical, a thing far more important. Her hands started to shake-

"_We get out of here NOW or we get CARRIED out in pieces, Julia!_"

"_Watch your **back**-! Oh, SHIT-!_"

"_Go go go go GO **GO**!_"

"_This isn't about life or death, its about success or failure and it rests on just what were willing to do to succeed and survive. That makes things very simple for me_"

Three separate voices, all women, were speaking. She couldn't place any of them as her sense of reality started to go, her mind starting to swim. Sydney heard automatic gunfire, explosions so close, loud and hard by that she should have been dead or worse. Bits and pieces of plaster fell near and on her, the occasional fragment of shattered or pulverised masonry being catapulted through the air at a speed and force that would have shattered bone and torn flesh with equal ease. Bullets shrieked by close enough she felt them stir the short hairs on her arms, lift the hair on her head even though she was lying down prone seeking cover...

"Sydney?" asked Sloane, staring straight at her, looking her directly in the eyes. It had no effect at all, her wild-eyed staring at nothing only got worse as her eyes darted every which way, seeing things he couldn't even imagine. It was possible she was hearing things, too, since she didn't respond to him at all. Most worrying, though, was the fact that her entire body was shaking from head to foot, every extremity in particular, a problem that was getting worse. If he didn't know better he'd have said that she was going into Shock, but he'd seen that enough times to know the difference. What she was going through was entirely in her head and was having a terrible effect on her physically, as though she was reliving an awful, terrifyingly traumatic memory. Was she? That could raise a whole new set of problems...

"_The only thing to remember when things get so bad that there can't possibly be worse is that they **will** get worse. Start by planning for your own survival and everyone else's death if you want to live_"

"_Toni, I swear by all I hold Holy, if you do not get the vault open and extract the Discs right this second NOW I WILL come down there and flay you alive before I break every bone in your body and make sure you survive for what comes next!_"

"_Alright, alright, keep yer bleedin' hair on, we'll get it done! Christ, no bloody pressure here with half the CIA trying to kill us, eh?!_"

"_This one's **mine**_"

Another voice she couldn't seem to place, even though the distinctive accent should have made it easier this time. A mans... Sydney glimpsed flickers of motion, light, shards of possibility. Thick sea-grey walls, tall doors made of what looked like glass, dazzling bright sunlight streaming through them. Long cold stone floor with black and white tiles set over it. Holes in big wooden reception desks gaped, made by hails of bullets and explosions. Hard stone floors and tall walls wore the kind of damage only inflicted by massive violence, devastation being scattered all about. There was a small fire burning off to her left evidently caused by an ruptured electrical conduits which had set loose scraps of paper and pieces of torn carpeting from inside a nearby office alight. Dead bodies were scattered everywhere, bullet and blade wounds all over them. Blood was splattered everywhere, one body shredded near the fire by what had to have been a grenade detonation. People were shooting at them from outside-them? Who were "them"? Where was she? _Who_ was she?

Only one individual was anywhere near her and still standing, fighting back against their attackers with controlled short bursts of gunfire from what looked like an MP-10. Roars of gunfire sounded from outside-then a deep, awful growl echoed from inside the building, coming from what could be no less than a heavy machine gun opening fire. Every single front door simply disintegrated as a massive storm of lethally brutal hot lead slashed through them, multiple echoing screeches, screams and thumps coming from outside as the terribly powerful gun shredded its way through metal, flesh and concrete with equal ease. The machine gun stopped firing inside of thirty seconds later, but the stench of fresh blood and the dead silence outside apart from car alarms, burglar alarms and screams heading away fast told their own story. The people who had been attacking them from outside the building were all dead. It all suddenly twisted into focus in her mind. CIA...Sydney suddenly felt utterly, almost uncontrollably, sick to her stomach. Things should never, ever have gotten this far...

The figure in front of her stood up and turned around, holding out a hand as she did, smoking MP-10 held loose in her left hand- That was when Sydney got her only good look at one of the people there-just as she suddenly snapped awake, finding herself staring into the disturbed face of Dr. Syal, who was about to her inject her with something. She barely even registered the fact she was shaking so badly she was almost falling off of the medical bed she was sitting on... She felt awful but physically fine, tried to speak, to tell him to stop whatever he was doing-then she saw the woman again, this time in the same room as her. She knew it was some kind of impossible fever dream or hallucination put together from inside her mind by what means she didn't know, since there was no way she could be remembering something she'd had removed from her memory years ago after all this time... But it didn't help.

The woman standing in front of her cut as odd a figure as she could easily imagine in her unusual garb, her choice of weapons being equally unusual-and odd. There was just something _wrong_ about the whole set-up...

Five-seven tall, long chestnut brown hair held in a tight ponytail down her back, deep, dark eyes of the same colour gleaming with intelligence-and no small trace of something truly awful barely concealed behind fabulous eyes. The hard-muscled physique of an Olympic-class athlete, a compact form and figure only added to by a striking beauty coloured by creamy, slightly pale white skin. No one she knew, but then the fact that she couldn't see more than half the face did nothing to help.

A jet-black skin-tight tunic and leggings which looked like reinforced leathers of the kind designed to provide limited protection in a close-quarter fight hand to hand literally outlined every line of the woman's figure, while hard, flat-soled leather boots of the same colour so sharp-ended it looked as though they were designed to deal real damage with impact alone covered her feet and lower legs up to her knees. A silver-black choker encircled her throat in a solid line of shining steel, clearly designed to protect her neck, while a jet-black mask covered the lower part of her face, wrapping up and over her nose and ears to almost completely conceal her identity.

Her arms were bare above the elbow but silver-black hard knuckled gauntlets covered her hands and forearms, silver-hilted knives being set into sheathes in the back of each. What could be seen of her arms revealed twin tattoos, one on each arm. An elegantly drawn whole-black hourglass, with an extended thick black line seemingly supporting each horizontally top and bottom, was set mid upper arm on both sides. The MP-10 hung in her left hand, but silver-plated semi-automatic 10MM pistols were holstered one under each shoulder while a compact, small backpack was just evident on her back.

On each hip short swords were sheathed, of all things. Sydney had seen enough pictures of ancient weapons and soldiers over the years thanks to an amateur interest in ancient conflicts and what she could learn from them to recognise ancient Roman Legion short stabbing swords, called Gladius. Sydney didn't have to think about it to know that, especially given the woman's almost uncanny grace in combat and in life, she made the impossible look easy despite the arsenal, which most people would have had difficulty even managing to carry let alone successfully operate with.

_**Selene.**_

_**Assassin of the Old Ones.**_

_**The Chaos Soldier.**_

She knew her name. She, Sydney Anne Bristow, sometime Julia Catherine Thorne, knew her name. This was _all_ wrong, so many kinds of _wrong..._

Sydney wasn't seeing reality or madness, or whatever this really was, separately any longer. She could see Sloane shouting at her, see Dr. Syal injecting her with something, she could see Selene standing there staring at her, one hand outstretched as if to say "Come". If she took that hand, what would happen...?

"_Its time_" said Selene, who Sydney suddenly realised was covered in spatters and traces of blood cast everywhere by the fighting and dying, none of it being her own. It was on her face, her arms, her body and legs, in her hair. Selene reached up to remove her mask with her other hand even as she reached out to Sydney. Against her better judgement, Sydney's hand rose up and out to make contact... Just before their hands could touch, just before she could see Selene's face, everything suddenly collapsed into darkness around her as what had to be a massive dose of Sedative administered by Dr. Syal literally knocked her out. The last thing she heard was, horribly enough as that impossible daydream, possibility or whatever it was slipped away from her, Sloane's voice as he shouted her name. "**SYDNEY!**" Montreal,

_Canada_

_Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night_

_What immortal hand or eye_

_Could frame thy fearful symmetry?_

_In what distant deeps or skies_

_Burnt the fire of thine eyes?_

_On what wings dare he aspire?_

_What the hand dare seize the fire?_

_**-The Tyger, William Blake**_

The pounding on the hotel door woke her up, long lashes flickering open over emerald green eyes highlighted by traces of gold. She sat up in the too soft hotel bed, glanced at her bedside clock-0234, unless the hotel was burning down or the person at the door had a gun she was going to be _very_ upset, very soon. She'd had less than three hours sleep and that made her..._grouchy_.

Slipping out of the bed with breathtaking grace, sheets sliding off of firm curves and smooth skin, she crossed the floor with the presence of a ghost, disturbing nothing, including the otherwise complete silence, stopping next to the chair her clothes were on. Slipping on her long, bright bloody red t-shirt, she quickly dealt with the issue of her nudity. Palming a knife in her left hand, she dealt with security issues. That done, she drifted over to the door. It had no security hole, so she pitched her voice to carry and got ready to jump. "Who is it?" she called out, her soft Italian accent coming out as she spoke.

"Its me! Toni! Open up!" called back a muffled voice, which caused the woman's eyebrows to shoot up. She swore, then unlatched and unlocked the door before wrenching it open. Toni Cummings, tall, dark, lean and stunning as she remembered, stood there, wearing blue jeans which showed off long legs, a sky-blue pale shirt which highlighted her figure and a brown leather jacket which looked as though it belonged to a middle-aged motorcyclist who'd never quite gotten over a youthful love affair with the Harley Davidson motorcycle. At least she was impossible to mistake...

The woman's hand shot out, grabbed Toni's arm and dragged her into the room before slamming shut the door and locking it, not bothering with the latches for now. She glared at Toni, unable to decide whether she should kill her or kiss her, but settled for slapping her with a snarl of anger, drawing a startled yelp from the taller woman.

"Remind me, Toni, did I not say "I'll call you" or is there something I'm missing here? Most people aren't demented enough to knock on the door of a professional Assassin at half two in the morning and I never thought you were suicidal!" snapped the woman, sharply.

"It was one kiss and a drunken fumble a year ago, so will you _drop_ it already?! God, your almost as bad as Talia... Alright, alright, sorry, but this couldn't wait and, right now, I'm so far down on options trying to swim right around North America is looking increasingly attractive as opposed to what will happen if they catch me" replied Toni, wincing as she flexed her right hand. The woman didn't miss the reaction.

"Take your jacket off and start further back. Who are "they"? What are you running from and who? Most importantly, why are you here and what have you gotten into _this_ time?" asked the woman, reaching into the bag slung underneath the chair her clothes were on. After a moments rummaging around she pulled out a First Aid kit and opened it to display some decidedly non-standard medical gear. Toni slowly, carefully removed her jacket as she organised herself, revealing a bloodstained right sleeve over the upper arm with a crude bandage around it.

The woman pulled out a Scalpel and started unwrapping the bloodied bandage, discovering a deep bullet wound in short order. She glanced at Toni quickly, receiving a nod, before pulling out a pencil torch which she clicked on and held between her teeth to illuminate the wound, ripping the shirt sleeve wide open first so she could work. "Do you need anything to bite down on?" asked the woman, before beginning her incision.

"No, I have a high pain tolerance, believe me. In the order they were asked... The Evolution Cadre has sent its people after me, people who are most certainly operating under Orders to take me alive or this bullet would have gone into my chest. I barely managed to loose them last time, I won't manage it again. Best I can tell, they managed to join the dots and realised I did Julia, Sydney or whatever she's calling herself these days a favour in Berlin when she got past their Security systems and stole the Rambaldi Ark without a trace. They think I know where she is and so it is, or they think I have it, don't know for sure, but they're willing to do just about anything to get it back..." said Toni, before hissing with pain as the woman cut into her arm.

"As for why I'm here with you...well, I've been hearing rumblings and I don't like what seems to be going on, the Security world does much better at finding and keeping secrets than people think. The Cadre knows I worked with the Styx Sisters and Simon Walkers group, somehow, so their going after the girls as well since Walker and his team are dead. If they can put it all together with enough clues so can the CIA and if _they_ do...well, I don't know about you but I don't really want Metsada Mossad Agents on loan to the Agency after me" said Toni, wincing sharply as the woman reached into her wound with a pair of sterile tweezers before grasping something.

A few seconds later she was holding a bloody bullet, before she expertly disinfected and stitched closed the wound, bandaging it securely again. The bullet went into a secure transparent plastic bag for later safe disposal, before the woman looked up at her carefully.

The torchlight highlighted the ravens wing black hair highlighted with traces of red that flowed over and around the woman's shoulders, chest and back to her waist down and loose, the sculpted and forged rather than born and grown body alluringly full and curvy with hard muscle standing out even as she sat still. Dusky skin that spoke of her mixed Italian and Greek ancestry merely added to the allure of the darkness, thick, dense shadows which concealed almost as much as they revealed. Her given name was Artemisia Hades, but most people just called her "Slade".

Her perfect, disturbing beauty and sheer physical allure were such that, on a five-seven frame, she almost seemed to be a compact version of the statue of an ancient Greek Goddess, but there was nothing remotely holy about her, she was closer in nature to pure Sin given form and voice. She was brilliant, incredible in nature and mind, a genius and more, could have been anyone or anything, whatever she wanted, but she'd chosen this. Just like she'd chosen few real partners for her bed as opposed to Playmates, the latest of whom she'd decided would be Toni. Oddly enough, despite her utter refusal to even consider it, Toni had no issues at all dealing with Artemisia nearly nude... Not that she didn't have to watch for "wandering" hands.

"So your in an almighty mess that might very well drag me in too and you want my help reaching "Miss Alias" to drag yourself out of it? Has it occurred to you that if I slit your throat and burn the body now I'll be shutting down the one weak link I know of? Walker and his team are dead, "Miss Alias" has Amnesia and not one of the Styx Sisters would crack if tortured for a year...well, all right, I can't guarantee that with Anna, but still. Toni, _only_ you would definitely crack under interrogation and we both know you'd spill your guts if poked and prodded hard enough. Give me a better reason to do anything" replied Slade, raising the bloody scalpel to her mouth, where she kissed the blade, licking the blood off her lips slowly.

Toni could only watch in horrified fascination for long seconds, then her desperation broke through the shock and forced her mind to work again. She wasn't going to die over this, she _wasn't_, but what could she _do_ to convince someone as ruthless and committed as Slade was, someone to whom life meant _nothing_-it came to her very suddenly, for the very reason she hadn't thought of it before. The fact was that giving out that kind of information alone could kill her, but _if_ it worked out it might just save her life, maybe more...

She looked Slade straight in the eyes, made sure that her fear wasn't showing even traces in her eyes and on her face, then spoke. If she wasn't absolutely, definitely certain about this when she spoke Slade would gut her for the insult and then strangle her with her own intestines for good measure. This was simple fact.

"I can give you contact protocol for Elena Derevko" said Toni, slowly and carefully, not sure what Slade's reaction would be. The Derevko name carried certain... consequences for those who used it the wrong way, or at all if you made a mistake.

Slade looked straight back at her right in the eyes for a second which felt as long as Eternity itself, then smiled broadly. "See, Toni? I knew that we could think of something if we tried hard enough" said Slade, before leaning forwards and landing a feather light kiss on Toni's lips. It took everything Toni had not to flinch away, a fact she didn't doubt Slade well knew and enjoyed...

_The American Embassy, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam_

It was an hour after they settled in that Ambassador Frost was able to see them. The time of meeting and greeting had been previously arranged, but a man in the Ambassadors position couldn't start shifting around a complicated timetable without raising eyebrows in the wrong places so they hadn't tried to set up a meeting immediately after their arrival, instead choosing to leave it until he would have a space to allow them access as recently deployed Diplomatic Service staff.

As he and Nadia approached the Ambassadors office, the young, blonde Secretary announcing them over a microphone before telling them they could enter, Dixon had time to admire the simplicity of Sloane's solution to the issue he'd raised concerning Nadia again. "Let politics work for them" indeed, suggesting that Nadia was a politically correct Washington appointment who just might have slept with her boss to get a senior job at a young age. Of course, she actually could do the job, making it harder to be insulting, which was the point. Sloane always had seen everything from every angle and a few more no one else would have or could have, excepting maybe Jack. Jack, of course, was the definitive organiser and field man where Sloane was the thinker, one of the main reasons he and Sloane had made such an effective team back in the old days Dixon supposed.

Ambassador Frost rose to meet them, although clearly not without considerable effort despite the fact he was as thin as a rake and seemed fairly fit even given his advanced age. His wheezing, almost stuttering breathing gave the answer away though. The fact was, reading someone's Medical Records was one thing, seeing what they were like in reality when concerning the person was another.

Frost, seventeen years on, was still suffering the effects of inhaling Nerve Gas. Given his pale, almost unhealthy looks and the fact he could only stand while supported by a silver lion-headed cane he rested most of his weight on, Dixon realised that the old man should almost certainly have been dead back then. That he was still around said that the man was tougher than granite and had even less give in him than Jack Bristow did, which was no minor compliment since Jack was the toughest, most resilient man Dixon had ever met. Given Frosts age and the fact it had to be almost entirely willpower both sustaining his dying body and allowing him to function day to day, even second to second, Dixon's impression of who and what Frost was went up several notches immediately. Here was a man who could and would always have done whatever it took.

"The surveillance devices in this room are...deactivated, by my own command and... cannot be reactivated from outside. You may speak freely. Welcome...Marcus Dixon. Welcome...Nadia Santos, or should that be...Derevko? Sloane? Bristow, even? No, no matter, you choose your own name...that I recognise" said Frost, shaking Dixon and Nadia's hands with his own pale, weak one, Nadia blinking as he went through her family connections as though they were common knowledge, which they weren't. Old hand, indeed...

"Sit, sit, we have...plenty to talk about, I'm sure, or so...Arvin assures me, so we will. I must apologise, also, I would...offer you a drink, but..." said Frost, with a helpless shrug. He didn't need to say anything else, his meaning was obvious and the way he put the facts made clear he didn't feel embarrassed stating them aloud.

"No need, thank you, the Minibars in our rooms are quite sufficient. So, to begin, why is JAG here?" asked Dixon, a question that made Frost give him a direct look and raise an eyebrow in obvious question. Nadia seemed a little puzzled at the first question, too, but she trusted him and didn't say a word. He presumed she'd understand he was just clearing up loose ends in due course.

"A fourteen year old boy with a submachine gun jumped the wall a week ago and... tried to make his way to my personal quarters to kill me. The soldier I presume...you saw being questioned by the JAG officers shot him after he...opened fire on being challenged. He was the brother of a local woman the same soldier is...involved with, who it...is suggested he has gotten Pregnant but cannot Marry. The brother saw this as a disgrace...to his family and regarded me as responsible...because the soldier answers to me here, ultimately, before matters get back to the States... Politics have been drawn in...because it is regarded as murder by the locals even though...it happened on American territory. Is that _really_...what you came here to ask me about, Dixon?" replied Frost, dryly.

"No, simply professional interest and a curiosity as to whether or not it might impact on our job here, sir. Actually, we were referred to you for matters of considerable importance. I understand that you knew Jack Bristow?" said Dixon.

"I've known that man since before he ever met his "Wife", I first met him at Langley in 69' after Conklin recruited him and I was one of the few people he maintained contact with after she burnt him in 81'. He still calls on occasion although since my...Retirement, I'm not as much help to him as I used to be, or at least not in the same way. Why? Is this why he hasn't called himself? Has he landed himself in trouble with the DCI again? Been cut up so bad he can't do the job? Disappeared looking after that daughter of his again? What?" asked Frost, raising an eyebrow as his breathing eased once he settled back down into his thick, comfortable chair.

"Something like that, but actually he's missing and we believe its connected to someone he knew in Vietnam back before the Communists won the War. A woman, a native called Jade?" said Dixon, wondering why Sloane had been so reluctant to expand on just what Jade had been to Jack back then, as well as who. He couldn't help but wonder what reaction Frost would have to that name, to. It turned out to not be what he expected.

Frost just sat still for almost a minute, not looking at either of them, gazing off into space and almost certainly into the past, before he slowly looked back at Dixon. "_**Jade**_. I see. Arvin Sloane really didn't tell you anything, did he? Leaving me to fill in the blanks for you. Well, they were Partners once upon a time and Arvin had to know better than anyone what was going on, maybe that's why he doesn't want to talk about it. I'll have to remember to call and thank him for that...where to start? Well, at the beginning I suppose..." Frost said, shaking his head slowly.

"Jack first met Jade in 73', when she was twenty-two years old and barely surviving the War while trying to protect her younger sister, who was twenty years younger than her if your wondering. She was making money, getting food and goods just to survive however she could whenever she could, doing what she _had_ to do to survive and, be clear, she was exceptionally good at it in a time of complete chaos when almost everything was either controlled or run by the US Army. She never went hungry or without, except for luxuries she didn't need. Maybe the main reason she was _so_ successful, though, was a very simple one. She was a remarkably proficient killer and, in all likelihood, at the time was the best freelance Assassin available in the entire country" said Frost, speaking slowly and clearly.

"Jack knew who she was, most people in the CIA did since she wasn't remotely fussy about who, how or where and the Vietcong badly needed someone of her talents, but knowing she existed and finding her were two different things. Jack took a novel approach to finding out: he hired her to kill him, then talked her out of it after she got inside the compound without disturbing any of the guards and put a knife to his throat while he was asleep. They came to an arrangement where by she would work exclusively for him, which she then lived by until 75'" continued Frost.

"In 75' a CIA-sponsored South Vietnamese General, a double Agent for the Communists we discovered later, called Hsui Kaian Mai, told the Agency he knew they'd lost and wanted a place of safety out of the country or he'd start naming names, give up dates and places like they never wanted to know. Langley was prepared to look at him for possible future reference, but Jack wasn't. He sent Jade to kill him-and she did, leaving the entire Vietcong after her head. She went back to Jack for help getting out herself, but he killed her and left the country on the last transport. No loose ends. That's the official line, anyway, want to hear the truth?" asked Frost, with a slight smile.

"Go on" replied Dixon, intrigued despite himself. This was all ancient history, but he was learning things about Jack he'd never know otherwise and the old man clearly knew far more than that. Dixon would have bet anyone good money at this point that Frost knew exactly where Jack was, once he got to the point they might even find out themselves...

"Jacks deal with Jade was two-fold. He agreed to get her sister to the States and into the WPP to protect her from anyone, which he did. He also agreed, believe it or not, to provide himself for Jades...pleasure, when she required it. You look shocked, Nadia Santos. Have you never been required to..._distract_ an enemy Agent?" asked Frost, smirking at Nadia, who was almost certainly blushing although the darker tinge of her skin granted by decades of South American sun protected her from easy analysis in that sense.

"No, I...I once had to distract a man and his bodyguards by performing a pole dancing routine while my Partner pick pocketed him-_Madre de dios_!" said Nadia, slapping both of her hands over her mouth as though she'd just realised what she'd said. Dixon kept the surprise he felt off of his face with an effort, he wasn't sure he wanted to imagine the beautiful young woman he was with doing something like _that_...

"While I would pay very good money to see such a thing, Nadia, I assure you that your secret stays within these four walls. Regardless, finally and most importantly, it is extremely likely that Jade did _not_ die in 75'" continued Frost, with a twinkle in his eye Dixon was sure Nadia didn't miss either.

"No body was ever recovered from the park with injuries Jack stated she should have had in his report, in 77' the new government put up a million-dollar reward for her capture or proven death and no one has collected it in thirty years of trying. Finally, the KGB made some effort to conceal pictures and the identity of a new Assassin that came into the fold in 80', but snatched security camera footage, the testimony of eyewitnesses who lived to talk and weeks of analysis of every scrap of Intel available concluded that it was almost certainly Jade, back from the dead. Jack, if you're wondering, refused to believe it" said Frost, with a deep sigh.

"She disappeared altogether after 91', resurfaced a few more times all over the world during the 90's but hasn't really been active since around 2000, at least to the best of my knowledge. Why is all of this important again?" asked Frost, glancing back at Dixon as he reached out and lifted, with visible effort, a small decanter of water on his desk before pouring water into a small glass he withdrew from a desk drawer. He sipped it as he glanced over at Nadia to see her reaction, not that she seemed to have any one in particular, her expression being hard to define.

"We have reason to believe, which your Intel seems to back up, that she was involved in a successful mission to abduct Jack Bristow from US territory almost twenty-four hours ago now and transport him to parts and places unknown for reasons unknown. We have no leads to follow up apart from an old signature marking which brought us here, the same number and ID that was on the helicopter which originally carried Jack and Sloane out of Vietnam for the last time back in 75'. Our understanding was that if anyone could get us further than that, you're the man" replied Dixon.

"I see. Well, I can get you started, but I simply don't know where she is, or even if she's really still alive. Before you ask, no, its not some intelligence trick or old friend, or foe, you can drag in and beat it out of. What your dealing with here is an animal who has no respect for human life, at all, with pitifully few exceptions. Therefore, you have to go to source, which leaves you two options" said Frost, before pausing to catch his breath.

"First, the obvious one. Her sister, Dao Sien Ma, was forgotten about thirty years ago, but if Jade kept in touch with anyone, it would have been her. Her name is Hannah Corvay now, has been since she was entered into the WPP. She's into films these days, would you believe, in Hollywood she's a respected scriptwriter and sometime actress. She lives in LA, I can give you contact details. Second, nobody knows where she was born, but the Vietcong put together extensive Intel on her and so did the CIA, both trying to pin down the who, how and why. They never did, but if anything might lead you to her apart from her sister that's where you'll find it" said Frost, throwing back a slug of water sharply.

"I see, thanks. This all means that we have some calls to make, I'll have to get back to you on their outcome. If we are tasked, do you have any way for us to access Cong records without breaking into the intelligence headquarters here and dredging through their archives for thirty year old records that may or may not be there?" asked Dixon.

"Marcus, never ask a Diplomat if he can find a way to do something illegal without getting caught, that's the whole point of the service. I know a man who doesn't care if the price is right, get back to me tomorrow and I'll have him with me, maybe even with the information. Anything else?" asked Frost.

"No, not for now. Thank you, you've been a great help" said Dixon, rising. Nadia did as well, so did Frost, slowly and painfully. He shook both their hands again, then they left.

As he slumped back into his chair again, waiting for his pounding heart to slow, his breath to stop rattling in his lungs, Ambassador Joseph Frost shook his head slowly, feeling a cold sweat on his skin after just the exertion involved in standing up and sitting down twice, as well as talking for an extended period. Age had nothing to do with it, seventeen years ago he could still have out-lasted nine out of ten men half his age in a cross-country run and pumped weights with the best of them.

No, yet again it all came back to the Nerve Gas. The damn stuff had killed him all those years ago, he'd known that back then. It just hadn't quite been enough to stop his heart once and for all. On the other hand he was a very old man now, only three years off his 80th birthday party, even though he'd stopped celebrating birthdays after what he'd seen in Korea more than fifty years ago now. Maybe it was time at last...

"Marcus, you should have asked if anyone else was with Jack and why..." muttered Frost, so quietly that he barely even heard his own voice. It didn't matter, he couldn't escape the thought that drifted through his mind as he thought again of those dark times.

_**...Medusa...**_

_The South China Sea_

"Would you at least try to explain to me precisely how you survived a punctured lung and being shot in the heart twice from point-blank range, Jade? It would be helpful if you added in just how you succeeded in having no pulse when I checked" said Jack Bristow, staring intently at the woman in front of him, who he'd believed to be dead for over thirty years now. She just smiled at him.

"Your not that naïve, Jack, my heart was never my weak point. If you'd really wanted me dead, you'd have put those bullets in my head. But, since you asked, when you checked my pulse before running off I was in extreme physical shock and the effect, quite literally, was to stop my heart. Why that didn't kill me, with my injuries on top, I can't explain, but here I am" said Jade, with a shrug.

"I came to minutes after you left, dragged myself over to that man you killed and used his clothes to bandage myself up as best I could. That done, I got to a Doctor I knew with nothing but sheer refusal to die keeping me on my feet until he could repair my lung and stop the internal bleeding. Even after all that, I was barely even able to walk until 77'. When I recovered enough to move out I got out of the country and never went back. You can find out the rest later, unless you want to stop and chat now" said Jade, glancing pointedly down below Jacks waistline.

"No rush, I'm sure. Although, I _do_ want to know why I'm here and, honestly, how I got here" replied Jack, tossing aside the bedclothes and standing up on bare feet. Being naked didn't bother him. After all, Jade had seen everything he had to offer when he was in his physical prime. She'd made good use of it, too... He tried not to think about that, even though he had to wonder whether or not Laura-_Irina_ had ever known of his...indiscretions with this woman.

"Wrong face to ask, Jack, but well done keeping in shape at your age. Slide on a loincloth or something and I'll show you what I mean" replied Jade, her eyes appreciatively trailing up and down his body like a lovers touch. Thirty years, more, yet she'd have jumped his ageing bones in an instant, he could tell that with a glance. After everything that had happened between them? Did she have something awful in mind for him or was something else going on here? He needed to know, soon.

"Oh, just so were clear? Were both professionals, Jack, you were doing a job, there was nothing personal about it. I'd have done the same to you, so I have nothing personally against you, only my dented professional pride to consider when I recall that you got the drop on me so cleanly. Alright?" asked Jade as she stood up, her dressing gown shifting about her slim body to reveal and conceal more of her every time she moved. His mouth was dry, so he swallowed. No matter how appealing, this was just not the time for that.

He glanced around and saw a pair of loose pale white trousers with a rope belt threaded through them set on a chair, baggy in the legs but clearly meant for him. He slipped them on and tied off the belt, not a bad fit and sensible for the climate. After all, he spent so much time in dark places and even underground at APO these days that he was starting to loose even the naturally healthy tan a lifetime of outdoors activity and sunlight had once granted him. This could physically do him nothing but good, as long as Jade didn't decide to kill him or worse.

Whether he liked to admit it or not, unarmed she had _always_ been the superior fighter, dropping him on his back or the seat of his pants every single time regardless of a stated lack of any formal training. This despite the fact that he'd been trained in street fighting, chaos tactics and Special Forces unarmed combat styles taken from Navy SEALS textbooks and taught by experienced professionals. She'd supposedly just always had a gift for killing and picked up the rest, one way or another, along the way. He'd always wondered if she ever realised just how gifted that actually made her, given that he was in the top 10% of CIA Agents every time combat skills were measured in annual assessments.

She led him outside, along a rough dirt path under trees that appeared to form part of a forest he couldn't tell the extent of. The building he'd been in was literally built into trees as a form of camouflage so effective that he could barely tell them apart, even though he was sure the building was free standing and secured. His best guess was two storeys high with a minimum of windows and a total lack of external distinguishing marks. The trees were native to East Asia, but he couldn't distinguish any more than that.

Jade spoke English with a slight accent, using words and phrases that said she'd either spent some time in America at some point or dealt with people who spoke such a way over an extended period of time. She hadn't spent enough time with him in Vietnam to do much more than learn basic English and get the job done, so that wasn't her source. Who was, then? He'd have known if she'd made contact with American intelligence, he had contacts and sources scattered throughout every branch of the services, including others like APO which had never and would never officially exist...

They approached a beach on the edge of the island, then he caught a whiff of the strange smell. Pipe tobacco, he quickly identified it as, so few people smoked that any longer it was honestly unusual to even run across someone who even had some. That was the first clue he had as to who he was meeting, as he took in a figure standing barefoot on the golden sands of the beach.

A man, mid to late sixties with a paunch that was clearly expanding with time, thinning grey hair and a face that was starting to show more than its share of wrinkles. With the soft-bodied build of an athlete gone to flab in later years covered with a light blue shirt, shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, dark blue trousers rolled up to the knees and the kind of posture one gained from sitting down too much, Jack could make an educated guess as to who the man was even before he saw more than the older mans profile. Then he turned around, placing his feet carefully, looked straight at Jack and smiled.

"Hello, Jack. Its been a long time..." said Nathaniel Frederick Klein, better known as Fred to his associates and agents. A man who lived like a mole hidden deep down inside the Pentagon and answered only to the President, who had the ultimate sanction to do whatever was necessary whenever and wherever using Agents who often weren't and never had been part of any American Intelligence or Military outfit, the ultimate in plausible deniability.

The creator and sole Director of Covert One, a deep black intelligence organisation so far out in the cold and hidden away that even the CIA could never even accidentally trip over it. The man and the organisation the President could turn to when literally all other options and every other possibility had failed or been exhausted beyond doubt. A man Jack liked to think of as the ultimate patriot.

That was the reason he'd made a point of staying in contact with Klein and being there over the years to get the job done when an experienced covert hand was needed, after meeting the older man in the dying days of the Vietnam War. When he'd first met Klein, Klein, then working somewhere under the Diplomatic service umbrella, had simply been under Orders to make sure that there were no intelligence issues of any sort left over after the War and had gone about the job with a thoroughness that had left people spinning helplessly in his wake before, job done, he'd left before the end of the War. He'd needed reliable men to be sure. Jack had been one of them-and he'd learnt a lot from the older man. After the War, they'd continued their association with extremely effective results.

The fact that Jack had been only the second recruit to Covert One in 2001 after its formation, following the fallout of the Hades Virus incident, was known to precisely three people, including Jack and Klein himself. Jack had often run operations for Klein and, more than once, gone on them himself. This, however, was not their normal method of making contact, while in any case Klein _never_ exposed himself like this. Jack was almost annoyed, but he knew better than anyone that Klein knew things no one else did, so he felt Klein deserved to have his case heard at least before things maybe became...unpleasant.

"Hello, Fred, good to see you again too. Would you start with why I'm here, more importantly why _you're_ here and, most important of all, just _what_ is this all about, please? While your at it, what about her?" asked Jack, shooting a sharp look at Jade, who smirked like the cat who'd got the cream.

"She's worked for me since 1977, Jack, I trust her with my life and any secret you care to name. However, there far more important things to be considered first" said Klein, before pausing for a puff on his long black-stem pipe.

"Jack, trust me on this if you've ever trusted me on anything. We need to _talk_, away from _everything_" said Klein, emphasising the last word particularly. Jack just stared at him.

"She works for you?" he managed, slowly...

/End of Chapter 9. All Reviews welcomed./


	11. Chapter 11

For all disclaimers: See previous Parts.

All Reviews welcomed.

**The Last Day**

_APO headquarters, four days ago_

Michael Vaughn, finally discharged from hospital, still walking with a slight limp and wincing as he worked his wounded shoulder to stop the joint from seizing up, finally returned to APO almost a full day after he was injured in the line of duty. His cut-up fingers had been cleaned up, stitched and bandaged carefully so he could use the hand, but the extent of his injuries and the fact he was required to take Painkillers just to function without being left almost incapable by pain and discomfort made the facts obvious. He was out of the field for at least a week with his injuries, the Doctor had been very clear on that. More likely two if he was fool enough to push his luck, only a promise to be careful had convinced the Doctor to release him.

It was unsatisfactory in the extreme, there was serious work to be done-there always was, of course, but Jason Bourne was an exception to _any_ rule-and he wouldn't be able to get out in the field watching Sydney's back even if he wanted to. He simply wasn't up to it, which left him running tech support and backup as required for the non-physical aspects of the job. That part of it had never been his real strength, even though he was perfectly capable, his time as Sydney's Handler while she was working undercover at SD-6 being the exception to the rule.

Mind, Sydney made _everything_ seem easy, even though he knew better than her father just what it cost Sydney to maintain that level of skill and professionalism over time. She never talked about it, but he knew from things she let slip it was worth the price to her. She really was a patriot-which only made him loathe Arvin Sloane's abuse of her over eight years and some months even more, just as he loathed the man himself. If he'd had to socialise rather than just work with Sloane to be active at APO, he'd have transferred to the NSA or FBI rather than go on.

"Hey, man, the walking wounded return! Welcome back, dude" said Eric Weiss, walking over to grab and enthusiastically pump the hand of Vaughn's good arm. It was obvious the other Agent would have liked to slap him on the shoulder to "officially" welcome him back, but didn't want to hurt his injured friend any worse. Vaughn almost sighed aloud, did they think he was an invalid or something?

He glanced around, not seeing many familiar faces beyond the everyday staff APO employed he had casual conversations with day to day. He wondered where everyone was, but his first priority was Sydney. He started to walk into the main area of the headquarters, looking for her as Weiss started to speak, but was brought up short by Marshall, who popped out of nowhere holding out a hand before almost retracting it after a good look at the state Vaughn was in. Vaughn made a point of grabbing and enthusiastically pumping Marshall's hand before he could step back and away, things were already getting ridiculous.

"Er, hey, hi Mr. Vaughn, glad to see your back on your feet and healthy and all...well, as good as you can get in this time...I'll be in my lab. Call if you need anything, er... Bye" said Marshall, before trotting off towards his labs and computers. Vaughn didn't try to hide his smile, Marshall was always reassuringly dopey despite the fact he was somewhere on the scale above genius with anything at all electronic. Even now he was married, too, a fact Vaughn still sometimes found hard to take in. Not that Carrie and Marshall weren't a good match for each other, they were...

"Mike, man, some things have happened I should _really_ catch you up on before you go see Sloane. Like, _now_" said Weiss, pointedly, glaring at Vaughn in a none-too-subtle hint. This time, Vaughn did sigh.

"Fine, tell me as we walk, just start with how Sydney got out of Hospital before me. I saw the state she was in when they took her to Hospital, short of a Miracle she wasn't getting up any time soon?" replied Vaughn, raising an eyebrow in question. It was Weiss's turn to sigh at this.

"Mike, no one and I mean _no_ one knows the answer to that one. She just..._was_ fit and healthy all of a sudden in the Hospital, we can't find out who or how, not even when. Its better if you take a look yourself, she's in Medical with Sloane..." said Weiss, a slight smirk on his face Vaughn understood.

Sydney had always hated spending time in Hospitals and in places which involved medical care unless she was seriously injured or incapable of getting out of bed. With her lifestyle, a fact which everyone in APO could appreciate, she said every time asked that thinking of your own mortality, which Doctors always made you do, was a fatal distraction she didn't need to even consider. The fact was, in that moment when life and death were less than a breath apart from one another on the job, as they often were, thinking of anything at all but what had to happen next was both pointless and possibly suicidal. Also, after coming back from her "missing" two years, Sydney's determination regarding her beliefs was absolute and pure beyond question. When you'd already died once, the differences between life and death were almost immaterial in the end.

All of this was why the expression on her face after Sloane told her she was Ordered to undergo a full battery of physical and mental tests given her evidently deteriorating mental state made even him look uncomfortable, she supposed. It didn't change what he'd said or the fact that Dr. Syal was clearly already making calls preparing the ground, since the full set of extensive tests would have to be carried out in a proper CIA hospital.

It didn't change the fact she could feel her temper fraying every time her protests were ignored, although she'd _never_ simply loose her temper with Arvin Sloane. All that would prove was the fact he had such a hold over her, which he already knew, that he could break right through her professional façade of cool, calm and collected intelligence any time he wanted to, something even _Vaughn_ couldn't easily do. Of course, he had effectively stopped manipulating her to achieve his own aims, at least as far as she could tell, since Nadia's arrival in his life, so a large part of what still let him get to her had to be in her head. The fact that he'd stolen a huge chunk of her life was something she could never put right...

"Look, I'm telling you I'm _fine_, why won't you believe me? I don't know what happened to set me off like that, but I'm sure its no more than psychological trauma after the attack I haven't fully recovered from yet setting off parts of my memory I thought I'd lost for good. That's a good thing, isn't it? They're just _memories_, nothing which can actually hurt me. I can work past it with a little time to sort myself out. If you're that worried, give me a day off and see how I am when I come back in. Wouldn't that be better?" asked Sydney, trying to keep a note of near desperation from her voice.

"No, because for all I know you might be in the early stages of complete psychological collapse only not showing any of the symptoms yet. Sydney, you were in a Coma and seriously injured after the Subway attack, you nearly died, yet you're here now without a scratch to show for it? Eighteen months after you apparently had two years of your memories removed for unknown reasons using means which have never been identified you have suddenly started remembering fragments of what occurred then, following an attack which nearly killed you? I don't believe in coincidences, particularly not one of that kind. Nor do you. I don't know yet if whatever happened to restore you was a gift, a curse or something else again, so until I do what happens now is obvious. You are on Medical Leave until I have some kind of logical explanation for what is happening to you. Anything else?" asked Sloane, his tone of voice making clear that his decision was final.

Sydney opened her mouth to speak, but a welcome surprise silenced her as a familiar, if battered, face appeared in the doorway of the infirmary. "Vaughn!" she called, so happy to see him that, without thinking about it, she sprang off of the infirmary bed and literally ran across the room, jumping into Vaughn's arms with a delighted laugh-which almost turned into a startled yelp as she felt Vaughn stagger.

Vaughn's arms came up to catch her, but her arms went around his neck and the spark of pain from hard contact with his injured shoulder almost drove him to his knees. His injured leg threatened to buckle beneath him but, almost biting through his lower lip, he gritted his teeth and held on long enough for his muscles to override the weakness and hold him upright. He could imagine little better than having Sydney Bristow in his arms, but, as just the impact caused all of his injuries, all of his aches and pains to flare up and almost stun him, he had to remember the Doctors warning. He simply wasn't up to protecting her, not yet.

"Hey, Syd" he managed when the worst of it had passed, trying and failing to ignore the anxious look in her eyes. Great, now even she was going to be thinking he was an invalid...

_Canada/USA border_

"...Can't believe you..." muttered Toni Cummings, just loud enough to be heard over the steady rumble of the flashy silver-grey cars engine. Slade shot her an irritated look over her circular ruby-red sunglasses but didn't say anything, clearly determined, at least for the minute, to pay attention to their surroundings and the people nearby. The right decision, of course, they _were_ at a Border Crossing where the smallest mistake or wrong movement would get them arrested or shot, or both, since they were using exceptional but still fake documents to pass by. Exceptional, as in they were using their own faces altered electronically in such a way a computer wouldn't put a match on them. A low-level electronic scrambler took care of slight details like CCTV and cameras, the pictures would be just indistinct enough to make it impossible to ID anyone in them while appearing to just be a glitch like modern systems software sometimes had. A glitch known as a "Bug", more specifically, one that would occur twice again during the following day, just for effect.

"Grow up, Toni, this is the only way if the EC are after you. They'll have every flight database wired, every port watched, every crossing marked. If we tried anything fantastic they'd mark us in a heartbeat and we'd be dead by dawn, low-tech is the only way to do this. Besides, with me driving we can get to LA in two days and then your troubles will be over, at least as far you know. If, that is, both Miss Alias and the Styx Sisters are still in the area, although you'll take either you say. Considering any one of the Sisters will kill you for dragging all of this down on them, you know my opinion" said Slade, with a wink as she drove forwards again a few feet, getting closer to the guard actually checking the documents as the other cars and trucks shifted around her.

"I've snatched a few ten-minute catnaps over maybe three days of running and am half-dead on my feet with exhaustion. I'm well aware I stand a good chance of being tortured to death if I go to any of the Sisters with this, thanks. If I tell "Miss Alias" everything they'll probably put me behind bars for the rest of my life, I _know_...but at least I'll be alive. I'm between a rock and a hard place, Slade, I'm out of options, luck and time, let alone choices. Did I really need you to point that all out to me? No... sorry, but there you go" snapped Toni, sharply.

"Touchy worry-wart, I'm just trying to cheer you up since you won't cheer _me_ up by keeping me warm at night without your clothes on, tease. We have to get going as soon as possible anyway when doing something like this, you should know that. Hold on, let me handle this" said Slade, pausing as they finally reached the guard, the brilliant lamp-light highlighting the car and crossing inside the darkness of deep night. It put out the already dim view of the stars and moon she had, obscured by drifting shreds of dark clouds which took away from their cold, beautiful brilliance despite her best efforts. A shame, night always had been her favourite time. The darkness before dawn during deepest night always made her feel so _alive_...

"Hello there, ladies. Papers and purpose of visit, please?" asked the guard, a slightly overweight forty-year-old with thinning blond hair and fading good looks well on their way out. Twenty years ago she suspected he'd have been the most handsome man on the field with a body to die for in his University football team prime, now he was well on his way to being a soft and useless has-been who never got any further than "What if?" That just made her job easier, of course, men had such fragile egos...

"Here you go. As for purpose of visit, pleasure, lots of pleasure, group sex, lesbian, straight, whips and chains, I do them all...would you be in New York a week from now? I'm sure we can fit you in somehow..." said Slade, the fingers of her free hand tracing Toni's lips as she handed over their Passports.

The guards eyes nearly rolled right out of his head his eyes opened so wide as she spoke, he flushed such a shade of red she was almost surprised his hair didn't catch fire as his cheeks flamed. She didn't need the quick glance below his waist to know she'd gotten the appropriate response, but that and a sultry smile always made them remember her face. Since no one ever saw it again, or knew who she really was, that suited her just fine. She shifted slightly so that the trace of cleavage evident above her t-shirt became more obvious as her breasts almost strained at the tight fabric, just for effect. She was nothing if not a perfectionist, after all.

"...Maybe, maybe...pass on, thanks..." managed the guard after almost a minute of just staring at her. He raised the barrier and she drove on through after taking back their papers, blowing him a kiss with a wink as they drove off before she put her foot down.

"Was that really necessary? You do know he'll remember you for the rest of his life now, right?" asked Toni, shaking her head in what Slade was sure was a mixture of respect and disbelief.

Without looking around, Slade grabbed Toni's head and dragged her in for a passionate kiss before releasing the startled woman, tasting her lipstick on her lips and tongue. "Sweet, they _all_ remember me, that's the _point_. After all, who am I to them again?" replied Slade, raising an eyebrow.

Toni didn't say anything else as she thought through what Slade had said. The point was, when she reasoned it through, that a woman like Slade was so impossible in action and nature that, while she turned heads and drew eyes everywhere she went, the more you saw of her the less you remembered of her. Women didn't want to recognise the fact she existed, while men just tried to take in a fantasy they could never have. In its own way, as Slade well knew, the best way to avoid being noticed _was_ to be noticed, a trick she'd perfected into an art form...

_Los Angeles_

Nicky Drake was still a young woman, in her early thirties despite being with the Agency for almost twelve years now, but she'd long ago learnt to watch her back at all times and, more importantly, to keep her ears and eyes peeled for anything at _all_ unusual. It was a lesson she'd learnt _hard_ when she'd been recruited into Project: Treadstone by Alex Conklin in 97', when the slightest slip, smallest mistake and even a simple ill-chosen word could kill and endanger far more than national security. It had been made very, very clear to her that, if she was made as CIA by _anyone_ while acting as an Agent for Treadstone, she would be "advised" to commit Suicide. If that wasn't enough incentive, people who made sure mistakes disappeared could reach her place of work within five minutes of learning of them.

It was a lesson she would never forget, one that had kept her alive and moving slowly upwards through CIA ranks ever since. It was the reason that made sure, as the personal assistant of Pamela Landy, a Deputy Director of the CIA, she checked every window, every door and every lock at least twice every time Landy came home to her secure townhouse when going off-duty for a while. She checked the two cars with CIA Agents that watched the house too, one driving around then relieving the other every half hour, before calling it in as clear so that her boss could enter her own home. She didn't doubt it needed to be done, every time, she just hoped it was enough given her experience with Bourne-and suspected it wasn't. Oddly enough, she suspected Landry had drawn the same conclusions-and wasn't concerned. It was almost as though the older woman knew something about Bourne that made her sure she could see him coming, or at least survive an encounter with him...

"Clear" said Nicky into her radio, then clicked it over to receive and put it back on her belt, next to the uncomfortable gun she still wasn't used to carrying. Landry's orders had been specific, though, no one was going unarmed anywhere with Bourne on the prowl. She sighed, as though she could do anything to stop Bourne if he decided to do something...

"_Copy_" said a voice from the car outside, before it drove off to be replaced by its already-parking partner. Glad there were fresh Agents outside, she took off her coat and put it on the coat rack before pulling off her headband and shaking out long chestnut hair which almost reached her waist.

Smooth-skinned, softly beautiful with easy curves and a firm body hardened by a determined two hours of exercise every day without fail, luminous dark brown eyes that illuminated her face completing the set, she was a beauty and knew it. She also knew that she was at most striking compared to some women she'd met in the Agency, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing given that the more striking the woman in the Agency, the more dangerous the assignments they seemed to get in her experience.

She was a more than competent desk jockey and knew it, which suited her fine. She was really about as physical as a wet sponge when one got right down to it. Merely the brutality Bourne had threatened her with in 04' when he'd been trying to get information concerning who'd been setting him up after the failed attack on him in India had reduced her to a blubbering wreck with a speed and ease which was almost humiliating. Almost, because she knew, better than almost anyone, what Bourne was really capable of. Confronted with someone as formidable and simply dangerous as Jason Bourne on the warpath and ready to do whatever it took to get what he wanted, _anyone_ would have cracked in time. Hell, Randi always said she'd die first if it came right down to it, but with Bourne you didn't get to make that choice...

"Hello, Nicky" said a mans voice from almost directly behind her, a voice she knew so well that it almost killed her even before she froze solid, terrified to move. Her mind and muscles simply didn't react fast enough when she realised he hadn't stabbed, shot or hit her after a few seconds, a massively strong hand clamping her mouth shut and locking her jaw in position. Even as she started to struggle, though, the blow came, hard and fast, a vicious kidney punch which nearly broke her back as well as almost making her bite off her own tongue as a sheet of agony flashed through her, driving her easily to her knees, limp as a wet flannel and weak as a kitten. She couldn't have wrestled against a breeze, let alone a strong, skilled man determined to kill her...

"In case your wondering, the car which just drove off is manned by some people who owe me a favour and know CIA procedure. The other car will be in half an hour, too. Communication intercepts are in effect, so even if someone gets off a panic alert no one will know. Its amazing the kind of people and tech you run across after almost five years on the run from the CIA when you move in killing circles, isn't it? Now, sit down and try very hard not to scream. Noise will just make this unpleasant and it doesn't have to be" said the man holding her, dragging her bodily into the sitting room.

The townhouse was two storeys tall, broad and thick-built with a number of small and a few large windows, designed with insulation and privacy in mind rather than the natural beauty of the place. Landry was a natural organiser and planner, which fed into her personal life by ensuring that all of her furniture and decorations were practical rather than ornamental, with the rare exception of personal items such as family photographs and family treasures which were granted pride of place and obviously on display. This made her chairs big, solid and comfortable, her tables long and blemish-free and her entertainment systems state of the art. Apart from the fact that the firm sofa absorbed most of the impact as he threw her on top of it, none of this was any part of anything that should have been running through her head. But, given who he was and what he was doing, where he was doing it? She wanted to think of _anything_ else.

"Sit up and shut up, I have to tell you certain things then you have to make a decision. First of all, I need to speak to Landry privately, _really_ privately, away from prying eyes and ears. You can get her here, without questions being asked, with her Bodyguards left outside. Do it for me, this will go far more easily for you. Second, nothing about this is personal. I have nothing against you myself asides from the fact that you work for the CIA and, even less fortunately, formerly for Project: Treadstone, which brings me to my third point. You are going to die here, how is entirely dependant on what you have to say when you speak. No second chances" said Jason Bourne, dressed darkly as ever in sweater, trousers, solid boots and shirt, a jacket sitting comfortably about his shoulders and upper chest.

He was around six feet tall and far from massively muscular, she'd recognised those facts when she'd first met him, there were far bigger and more physically dangerous men-evidently, at least. What made Bourne so dangerous compared to _anyone_, though, was the fact that he was utterly assured in his truly exceptional physical skill, a man who made no mistakes and killed with every breath he took if he chose to. He knew every weak spot, every vital area, every strike and skill that could be considered part of the art of murder, of _killing_, that anyone sane could imagine and a few more besides. His eyes were cold and almost ice chips in a smooth face, a truly disturbing stare making it impossible to hold his eyes for any length of time. He would have been handsome, but he was too terrifying in person to be attractive to her at all. He could simply reach across and kill her before she could scream, hard and fast and brutal as he liked, a lethal fact there was no defence from. She was going to _die_...

"Nicky, times up. Talk to me" said Bourne, cold eyes full of signs of a distant storm getting closer fast. She didn't think he was mad for even a second, he was utterly rational, cool and precise in every single thing he did. She suspected something awful, though. The possibility that, having lost first his identity to Project: Treadstone, then his life and memory, then the one person, Marie Helena Kurtz, who had been able to calm him down and even control him to some small degree, something he'd needed with his damaged psychological state when he became almost irrational, flashes of a glimpsed past and possibilities threatening to fracture his mind once and for all, to drive him insane... She thought that he just might have been forced to drive himself so deep down into _what_ he was as opposed to _who_ just to survive that the man he had been was simply no longer part of whatever, _who_ever he'd become. After five years on the run with the resources and manpower of the CIA and others all out to find and, preferably, kill you? What would happen to _anyone_ after that amount of time and pressure? Bourne was exceptional in the truest sense of the word, but he was also a terribly damaged, flawed, hounded and hunted lonely individual who had very likely finally been driven to breaking point by stresses beyond her imagination.

It occurred to her that thinking about all of these things now was really not the wisest use of whatever time she had left, but it wouldn't sink in. Maybe because, on some level, she thought that, just perhaps, they all deserved this for what they'd done over the years to recreate and forge Project: Treadstone and its agents into the diamond-edged razorblade weapon of choice for killing that they'd all so arrogantly believed they needed? Alex Conklin and Ward Abbot had already paid the ultimate price for that arrogance, maybe, just maybe, it was her time...

She pulled out her Mobile and hit the Speed Dial for the Embassy, nodding to Bourne as the call went through. "I'm calling her, I'll put her on Speakerphone to prove it, then I'll get her here. I only ask one thing: don't kill her, she had no part in this. You know what I mean" said Nicky, placing her Mobile on the table as she switched it to Speakerphone.

"_Embassy, state identity and Security Clearance Code now_" replied a mans voice almost immediately. It wasn't automated, but every word spoken was scanned and recorded, security at the Embassy was too high-order to trust computers alone in Landry's opinion.

"Drake, Nicky, Security Level 4 Code 4J5569D. Confirm" replied Nicky, waiting as the code and her identity were checked against the central database.

"_Confirmed. State your request_" replied the man's voice.

"Request immediate contact with Deputy Director Landry, priority call" said Nicky, glancing over at Bourne, who just nodded. She wondered what was going through his mind, even as she recognised the slowly dawning fact that she'd never know. It was strange, the thought didn't really bother her, the likelihood of her own death?

"_Connecting. Stand by_..." came back the mans voice, before a series of clicks sounded over the line.

"_Landry. Go_" came Landry's voice, as professional and businesslike as always in tone and manner despite the fact that Nicky was one of her few close friends and both women knew it. Business before pleasure, that was Landry's way, a professional work ethics example Nicky tried hard to follow. Landry was a hard woman to follow where getting the job done and being the consummate professional were concerned, but it was worth the effort if you were serious about these things in Nicky's opinion.

"Sir, this is Nicky Drake. I have just received an update from an intelligence contact of mine in NSA concerning the project and need to discuss it with you, personally, in private as soon as possible. This is a priority matter and should not be mentioned over any form of electronic communication" said Nicky. Even as she spoke, she felt like Judas Iscariot. Landry trusted her implicitly, maybe even with her life, now she was betraying that trust with every word she spoke. Maybe that was just the price she had to pay, though...

"_Understood. I'll be there in twenty. Landry out_" replied Landry, then the call ended. Nicky just looked up at Bourne steadily, even though she refused to meet his eyes.

"Well?" she asked, voice not trembling at all, which she was secretly very glad of. After all, he was the last person she was ever going to speak to and she didn't want to feel like she'd died sounding like a coward.

He extended out both hands, then rolled his palms over and opened his fingers to display what he was holding. In his left hand, he held a long, razor edged black-handled slim knife. In his left, he held a simple red pill.

"Now you choose" he said, softly. "Don't worry, I won't hurt her" he added, almost as an afterthought. For some reason, she didn't doubt him at all.

She looked at him for a moment, then slowly shook her head before biting her lip and nodding. "Just so you know, I don't want to die" she said, so quietly that even she barely heard herself. He heard her, of course, he had the ears of a cat.

"I know, but it won't hurt, you'll just go to sleep" he replied, not moving his hands or arms at all. He was letting her choose how this went, she knew, but he'd kill her without a second thought in less time than it took to tell, that was a fact she was certain of. _Dead_ certain. This was _it_...

She didn't even have to think about it, in the end. She took the pill, bit down on it hard and swallowed the liquid that seeped out of it without hesitation, lying down comfortably on the sofa as everything slowly fell away from her. There were worse ways to die...

_Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam _

Nadia Santos had joined Argentinean Intelligence when she was nineteen years old, in her own way trying to put right all the things she'd put wrong up to that point in her life, then stayed in the game and done the job with what she'd quickly learnt was exceptional skill and talent for the next six years, until she'd met her own father for the first time ever. What she'd learnt from that meeting had left her...disturbed, at the possibilities that had presented themselves as much as concerning the truth of just who and what her father really was. How would anyone react, how should anyone react, after meeting their father for the first time at twenty-seven, only to have him abduct and torture them for nothing more than the secrets of a man dead for five hundred years, secrets which were, unknown to her, hidden away deep inside her own mind and body? To say she'd needed time to think it all through was akin to suggesting that the Earth was made in a day.

She'd been better than halfway tempted to kill her own father for everything he'd done, been within a moment of pulling the trigger after seeing what their journey to Sienna had done to him, witnessing the look in his eyes and on his face when he'd been almost within reach of the Sphere of Life... But she'd stopped herself for one reason. Everyone deserved a second chance, including her, which also meant him. Her mother was dead, so he was all she had left-with the exception of her sister, Sydney, who meant everything to her after so long alone in the world...

That thought had made her carry her fathers bleeding, unconscious body halfway down a mountain on her back, lead Jack Bristow to the Sphere and retrieve it for him when her father called Sydney's for help. That thought had led her back to Argentina and away from the intelligence world, for three long, almost dreamlike months which she used to try and sort through everything she suddenly knew-until her sister arrived and made the decision very easy. Her father...well, that was a complicated situation that would likely only get better after a considerable amount of time and talking had passed. She wasn't sure she'd ever be able to put behind her the fact that the first thing he'd done on getting time alone with her, for the first time in their lives they'd known of each others existence, had been to torture his only child. His reasons were worse than that, even... Sydney, though, made it all very simple. Sydney she trusted body and Soul, had since the first time she'd laid eyes on her older sister. It was as though she'd just known, somehow, they should always have been there for each other?

She shook her head as she strolled down the streets of the city, glancing around and about her at all of the different building styles, the people about even at this late hour, darkness long fallen, the old men and women sitting in doorways, the stalls that stayed open all hours selling everything from cheap trinkets to food to very illegal hi-tech hardware which was obviously stolen. The thousand different smells, sights and sounds filled her mind and drove out of it any other thoughts than the ones about just enjoying a place she'd never been before, even with the devastating foggy heat and humidity, as bad as she was used to in Argentina, which was saying something. It was what she wanted. It was possible to think _too_ much about a thing, no matter what.

The long walks she often went on around LA's parks and streets, sometimes accompanied by Sydney, were a part of the process of thinking through and absorbing everything which had changed over the past ten months for her, a means of simply physically distracting herself while she tried to shift it all around so that it could fit into her head and make sense. The walks were a secret only she and Sydney shared, just like Sydney's otherwise unknown near-breakdown from sheer frustration and Amnesia-related blank spots early on following Sydney's return from the "dead" after two years.

Even Jack didn't know just how far down Sydney had fallen before she'd bottomed out and found a way back up the long road to self and strength, but Sydney had mentioned that a surprising figure had played a large part in pulling her back together in the end in strictest confidence-Lauren Reed, Vaughn's now-dead Wife and NSC Agent, a formidable woman who had turned out to be a traitor of the worst kind. Apparently, Lauren had literally walked in on Sydney at home almost exactly when Sydney had hit rock bottom, looking for escape in the bottom of a bottle with a kitchen knife in her free hand just in case, literally wrestled the bigger woman into submission before forcing her to confess what the problem was by simply refusing to leave until she knew the truth and, in doing so, finally forced the battered Sydney to confront her demons head-on.

What her motives and reasons had been they'd never know, but she'd almost certainly saved Sydney's life. It had, in the end, almost killed Sydney too, since, while Sydney knew beyond question Lauren was a traitor of the worst kind, Sydney hadn't honestly, deep down when it really mattered, wanted her dead. She'd wanted an explanation more-and that had put Lauren Reeds hands around her throat.

Sydney had recommended that she talk to Jack, since if anyone knew all about trying to force the impossible, absurd and obscene into your head in such a way that it didn't drive you utterly mad it was him, but it wasn't that simple and she wasn't that stupid, no matter what Sydney hadn't realised. If she really opened up to Jack that way she had little doubt they'd end up sharing a bed and she wouldn't, _couldn't_ do that to her sister. Better she deal with it herself, quietly and simply, on the inside. Even her father couldn't know things like _this_ were rolling around in her head...

She drifted to a stop as she realised where she was and what she was looking at. She was just outside the centre of the city, standing at the top of a street they'd driven past on their way to the Embassy from the airport. The street was small, short and dark, cluttered with more than a little rubbish and no real illumination, but the place she'd seen didn't need it. The red letters spelt out the words "_Cong Bar_" in English, something which just appealed to her somehow. The soft hint of music concealed inside by closed doors and windows added to traces of laughter only added to the appeal.

She strolled down to the thick wooden door which was clearly the entrance, ignoring the leering eyes of several men and at least one woman who seemed to have nothing better to do, tried the door only to find it locked and rapped on it near the spy hole. An eye briefly appeared in it, then the click of bolts sliding sounded and the door swung open. A massive man stood there, roughly the size and shape of a particularly large bodybuilder who used too many steroids, carrying what looked like a sawn-off shotgun that could very easily double as a very adequate club. With his pig-like ugly face and almost forward-sloping forehead he was ugly, but she judged that the muscle mass and considerable bulk was all natural and probably let him bend steel bars in his bare hands if he wanted to so it didn't really matter. This was the kind of man, she knew, who could and would take anything he wanted and not be questioned.

He glanced down at her and gave her a professional once-over, his eyes not even briefly pausing on her legs, chest or face despite her tight dark-brown trousers, cream-white shirt and loose dark hair, all of which only enhanced her natural physical beauty. Someone, she knew then, was paying him a lot of money to do this job right.

"Not a Vet, are you?" he asked, voice a bass growl so deep she half expected it to be coming out of the ground. He shifted in a way which suggested some form of combat training as he took in the few Vietnamese natives, weight shifting to the balls of his feet as the gun shifted in his hand. Not one of them would look him in the eyes, even though one flashed an obscene gesture at him.

"You mean am I Vietnamese? No, I'm Argentinean originally, American immigrant. Why?" replied Nadia, suspecting that she wouldn't like the answer.

"Because the last time I let one of the kids of our boys in here he head butted the bartender when Sammy said he'd been here back then. Pulled a flick knife on me. That ain't going to happen again. Pass by, three drink minimum" said the Bouncer, slamming shut and locking the door behind them.

"Maybe for you..." Nadia muttered under her breath, before walking along the short corridor. The sight inside the bar or nightclub, whatever it was, wasn't what she'd been expecting.

It was like walking into a bar back in the USA. Pool tables filled half the floor, a dance floor with rotating disco lights which looked like it had escaped from the film "Saturday Night Fever" occupied most of the rest while the remainder was filled up with a big bar, tables and chairs. The occupants of the crowded bar, she took in after a moments surveillance, were overwhelmingly not Vietnamese, even though there were a few visible. This place was obviously where the Embassy staff from all of the various countries which had representation in Vietnam who wanted to get away from that country for a while came. She wasn't honestly sure if that was a good thing or not, but she could enjoy it for now.

She glanced around, wondering whether to have a drink first or try and interest someone in a game of Pool-she wished Sydney was around again, they always had fun with ridiculous bets on the outcomes of their games-when she spotted a face she knew. It was a face she hadn't expected to see in a bar like this.

The female JAG officer was playing Pool with another woman, easily distinctive amongst the people near her thanks to flaming red-gold hair which fell to her waist down and loose. Her sharp jade-green eyes were focused on the ball she was about to strike, a slight frown of concentration marring her striking face, so she hadn't even noticed Nadia, let alone recognised her. Nadia took in the full, lean lines of the woman's tall, long body, outlined closely by her dark red dress, bare arms displaying hard muscle, realising that the older woman was probably even fitter than she was-and that, to have good reason to maintain that sort of physical development, she was certainly career Military who had significant field experience and knew she might need everything at her physical disposal at any time. They didn't know each other, but it was a start.

The second woman was a particularly striking ice-blonde with eyes the kind of blue which shamed a clear desert sky. Five-nine tall, compact and hard-muscled with a slim body and long legs that likely made her an Olympic-class sprinter if she put her mind to it, the younger woman was in her mid thirties, just a little older than Sydney, but looked easily younger. A pair of dark blue trousers and a loose white shirt highlighted tanned skin turned golden by the sun, even though the JAG woman's skin was naturally darker in tone so her own tan only highlighted her beauty. Together, the two of them were easily the most devastating thing for the male eye in the room-and everyone in there, including the two of them, clearly knew it. Something which might just work to her advantage...

Nadia just smiled at the thought. Everything seemed to remind her of Sydney nowadays, she and Sydney regularly got any number of offers from any number of people when they went to places like this together in the USA. She supposed she missed Sydney so much because she still just wasn't used to having a sister...

She strode over to the Pool table the two women were at with no more thought, leant on the edge even as the JAG officer easily potted two balls at once with a grin and waited to be noticed. It didn't take long.

"Is there something you wanted, are we in trouble or are you trying to Seduce us? Pick one" said the blonde woman, her accent American, without even looking up at Nadia. Her expression didn't change from a resolute grimace as the JAG officer expertly potted another two balls.

"Actually, I was wondering if I could join you. I'm new in town and won't be staying long, so I hoped I could find some female company to keep off the men for a while" replied Nadia, trying and barely succeeding in keeping a straight face at the blondes direct approach to finding out what she wanted.

"Yes, you can. Leave her alone, Randi, she's too young for you" replied the JAG officer, even as she potted another ball, also clearly American. Nadia's ear wasn't practised enough with regional dialects in the USA to let her pick out specific regions yet, but she could still tell for certain when an accent was real or falsified. Both women's were true, no doubt at all.

"To quote my Lawyer friend here, sure you can. My names Randi Russell, State Department team leader and supervisor at the American Embassy. She's Sarah Bell, senior JAG officer out of Washington, D.C., here for the duration, just like you. What about you?" asked Randi, extending a hand for Nadia to shake.

Nadia shook the offered hand, making sure to keep what she was thinking out of her eyes and off of her face. Randi had just used Agency lingo in a style Sydney had taught her to identify herself as the Station Chief of the CIA stationed out of the US Embassy, which meant she was the most senior Agent in-country on a standard basis. It was a question as much as a statement, meaning Randi was asking her if she was really just "Passing through", but APO was _not_ a part of the CIA. Which meant she would have to be very careful, Randi would sense any outright lies and make a good guess at any distortions.

"Helena Santi, formerly of Argentina now of the USA, only recently a recruit of the State Department, Diplomatic corp. My partner and I are here to make sure that Ambassador Frost makes no mistakes and only tells us everything we need to know. Beyond that, you don't want to know" replied Nadia, shaking Sarah's hand as the older woman politely paused a moment to properly greet her.

"Welcome to the jungle, sweetheart" said Sarah, with a broad wink before she potted two more balls at once and won the game of Pool easily. Randi didn't do anything more than stare at Nadia for a moment, then shrugged and sighed at the sight. Nadia wondered, just for a moment, precisely what she might be letting herself in for by getting to know these two women even a little, especially while under an Alias.

_Los Angeles_

"She's dead…? No, I don't believe it. Of course I'm paranoid, who do you think your talking to...? Who...? Jack Bristow...well, yes, certainly that's possible, he's more than capable... I'm well aware he's her father, don't mention that again. Have you considered that just the destruction of her villa in Italy and the termination of her assets doesn't mean she's a loss...? No, I don't care if the damn Covenant did put out a claim of responsibility. Nine out of every ten things those people did was a lie of one sort or another... Listen to me: is there a body...? There is...? Has there been a definite ID...? Don't ask me a stupid question, if the bodies dead and buried dig it up again and check everything from DNA to skin colour to age, size and weight, include every distinguishing characteristic possible, check every single thing three times at least and then presume... DNA can be faked, remember the Helix Project? Don't ever rely on that alone, make sure the body isn't a Clone while you're at it... If the bodies in a Mausoleum in Moscow get it _out_ of there... I don't care if she did put it there herself, if you can't get it in and out without her knowledge what's the point of your operation...? Good. Call me when it's done" said Talia, before hanging up as she drove her silver Mercedes into LA. She dialled a different number, put the phone back to her ear and waited for the call to connect.

"Julian...? No, it's someone else who you owe half a dozen favours and your life to twice over... Julian, I don't care if your stark naked in the shower, having sex or fighting for your life against six psychotic killers who want to eat you alive, listen to me... That's better. I need you to do something for me, listen closely... No, I don't want you to take this down in writing you idiot, _listen_... _**SARK!**_ If you keep trying to annoy me I won't send Cole this time, I'll come myself...Don't ask how I got the number...good. This concerns Irina Derevko... No, I don't want you to bring her body here from Moscow, I want absolute proof she actually is dead... You had ties with her going back to before her days as "The Man", Julian, don't make protests like that... Sark, if you have to Prostitute yourself to Katya Derevko to make sure I expect you to enjoy it... If you do, find out who, why and when. I have sources who suggest Jack Bristow may have been the last person to see her alive... Yes, I know what he said he'd do to you if you ever went near his daughter again. Avoid her. Call me... Yes, usual arrangements... Julian, you just got out of prison, not Hell. Make some calls... Yes, Selene would like to hear from you, but she's out of touch at the minute... Good. Call me when it's done" said Talia, before hanging up as she came to a stop at traffic lights.

Her phone rang abruptly, making her wonder who was calling. She wasn't expecting anyone's call any time soon?

"Hello...? Artemisia, what in the names of all the Saints and Sinners of Heaven and Hell do you think your doing calling me out of the blue like this...? Your doing what? With _who_...? I know about the Evolution Cadre, have you been watching the news? The LA subway attack was them... This phone is coded, they can't track or listen to me but they can get you if yours isn't... Yes, were in LA... I'll have a representative waiting... No, I _don't_ want you to break her legs just in case. Very funny... If Irina _was_ dead the Raven would be torturing the reason right now. Nobody knows who killed her but the assassin, if there really is one...the only exception I can think of I won't say aloud... What _about_ Elena Derevko? I wouldn't trust the Derevko sisters if they said water was wet and the sun was warm... Artemisia Hades, you're an idiot... Why? I've met the Raven, you haven't, that woman could teach the Devil new tricks. She was Irina's mentor... More to the point, the Derevko sisters have been setting up something for over thirty years now, I have good reason to believe that that's why Elena really disappeared back in 74'... Nobody does... Artemisia, if I went to Elena tomorrow she'd let me do anything I wanted to to keep me, she wants talent, not style... That is not an insult, I only know three people more dangerous than you and I'm one of them. You don't understand the Derevko's... Well, good luck with that. Goodbye" said Talia, then finally put her phone away.

It was only after she was sure that she was alone, unheard and unseen, that she allowed herself to breathe in deeply and let it out slowly to relax. As if she didn't have enough to worry about already...

/End of Chapter 10. All Reviews welcomed./


	12. Chapter 12

For all disclaimers: Graphic violence occurs in this part. Apart from that, see previous parts.

All Reviews welcomed.

**The Last Day**

**Chaos is control.**

**-**_**Jason Bourne**_

_Paris, 2002_

A long time ago, the streets of Paris were described as holding a mobile feast of people, moving every which way doing anything and everything imaginable. The number of people has since increased, dramatically, to the point that the feast could now feed the horde of people a city contains, well-warmed and half-cooked by a brilliant summer sun shining down from a Paris summer sky free from the shade of clouds. The city was always alive, bustling with life, energy, possibility and imagination-he honestly wasn't sure about its reputation for romance. Of course, that last part was nowhere in his job description, so why would he be worried? Why _should_ he worry?

He liked to think of what he saw these days as being more of a puzzle than anything, how the people or person in question had got where they were, why they were going to their destination and what their ultimate purpose was. Everyone had something they had to do before they died, the trick was to realise it. He, of course, had had it realised _for_ him a long time ago now...

David Webb strolled along the main road as the summer sun shone down on his head and shoulders, warming his forearms as they were exposed by his light blue t-shirt. His dark blue well-worn jeans and white sneakers completed the off-duty clothes he'd chosen for today, no hat blocking the warmth of the sun on his ash-blonde hair, grey eyes gleaming sharp in a gently handsome face. He looked about as average and normal as could be imagined, even with his clothes displaying well developed and compact, hard muscle, which was the point.

His real name, he supposed, was Jason Bourne. He was here to meet a man because he didn't have days off, just interludes when he wasn't busy at that moment. "Here" was the Green Leaf outdoor Café, perfect and scenic surrounded by plants, ferns and trees with a broad mixture of greens, reds and yellows colouring them like small rainbows wherever you looked. Chairs, tables, benches and even picnic mats were laid out everywhere that he could see as he approached, the expensive-looking café being almost full of people. Perfect, there was no better cover than people if you were careful.

He glanced at his watch as he strode in through the entrance, his stride somewhere between a distance-eating soldiers march and a panthers loping agility moving at speed, took in the time and glanced up, looked around himself carefully. Ten minutes early, nobody around who shouldn't have been. That was what he needed to know. He even had time for a drink.

He let himself wander through the café until he came across a member of staff, one dressed in the soft green short-sleeved shirt and light trouser uniform of the place, then paused to order a Cappuccino using fluent French so perfect even what was left of his original American accent didn't give him away. The Waiter smiled brightly, made a note and moved away. He kept moving, just enjoying the ever-so-slight breeze playing across his face, the sun warming his skin, pleasures he didn't so much get to enjoy as _experience_ for a period of time now and again-

Then he saw _her_. His train of thought derailed and vanished without trace as his eyes opened so wide he thought he was going to fall over even as he leant towards her, trying to take in the vision he was staring at in one go even as his imagination failed, in utter shock.

Dark gold-flecked mahogany-brown eyes of a liquid nature that was more than mesmerising at a glance, shaded by impossibly perfect long, elegant eyebrows, eyes which drew in and kept the eye and the attention for far longer than they should have as an invitation almost bled into the mind. Very dark mahogany brown hair falling in a silken-smooth wave over and about her back, chest and shoulders down to her waist, all carrying a remarkable lustre which he knew made it even more fabulously perfect to the touch. Darkly devastating, with delicious tawny skin, long, lean body, full, firm curves and an almost disturbingly delicious beauty created from flawless old Roman blood. All filled out by a firm-formed physique forged of muscle, superb bone structure and the sort of physical allure fantasies were constructed of. Framed by a pale white shirt, sharp black shoes and sky-blue dress, clothes which only served to enhance the striking natural grace and elegance she displayed even sitting still.

She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, could ever hope to see, could never hope to imagine. She spoke quietly, apparently translating something in her book aloud, so he heard her voice. A voice that matched her nature, sensual and sweet as finest honey dipped in liquid pleasure for added effect on anyone who heard her...

She was as beautiful and as sexual a creature as the Sin of Lust itself could ever have constructed. She was temptation in the same way water was tempting to those dying of thirst in the middle of a desert. She was every possibility of any impossible dream he'd ever had rolled into one. She was the kind of beautiful which made him want to see if she was real before he said or did anything...

He abruptly realised that she was smiling, very slightly, those full, perfect red lips shifting very little, but enough. He also realised he had been standing still, just staring at her, with his jaw on his chest for a minute at least now. She was smiling at _him_, out of everyone in the café who was trying, or even openly just staring, to get a good look at her...

He almost shook his head to clear his mind, very aware suddenly he'd been sandbagged by just a glance at a woman he'd never seen before. That was ridiculous, no matter how beautiful she was-he tried and failed to ignore the part of him that told him his reasoning was hopelessly flawed even as he drank in the vision in front of him, just looking at the woman having the effect of cutting intelligent thought right out of his mind. He barely even realised he was walking over to her before he was abruptly so close he could have knelt down and felt her breath on his face. This was crazy, he didn't respond to women like this, hadn't since-well, 95'?

She was sitting in a wooden high-backed chair softened with cushions, a glass of orange juice on a table in front of her sitting still in the sun. The brilliant sunlight being cast down from the cloudless sky above highlighted every plane of her flawless face, illuminated every corner of her body. He didn't need to guess at what the clothes she was wearing "concealed", they fit her close enough that darker areas filled in the gaps very well indeed. The book she was reading was titled "Hero In The Shadows", by an author called David Gemmell, someone he'd never heard of-why was he doing anything at all rather than talk to her?

"Will you sit down, silly man? I don't bite, in public, am in a public place and would not mind a little company, you know?" said the woman, glancing up at him with a raised eyebrow, strong Italian accent almost flowing from her lips. Feeling sheepish, he sat down-then thought to extend his hand to shake hers.

"David Webb" he said, not sure what response he'd get to his introduction-if he actually got one-but a hand met his and shook firmly, backed with surprising strength as he felt steel-cable muscle ripple in her hand and arm. That let him know there was more to her than met the eye, for certain.

"Monica Messolina, pleased to meet you David Webb. Excuse my distraction, but I am awaiting a companion and this book is quite delicious. However, I will not be impolite" said Monica, marking her place and putting the book down on the table even as Webb's Cappuccino arrived.

"Before you ask, I am a Lawyer professionally, so please think carefully before saying anything you might regret later, unless you intend to make sure I have good enough reason to forget it. Also, yes, I am Roman. You are American, yes? A weak accent, but I have good ears" said Monica, taking a sip of her orange juice.

Better than good, Webb thought, keeping his thoughts off his face and out of his eyes. He'd fooled experts with his language skills before now, yet she'd made him in seconds with a very brief conversation to analyse. That was dangerous. He would have to be very careful here.

"Yes, but I've been gone for a long time. I travel a lot, meet a lot of people, keep busy. I don't really have a profession, but you could consider me a roving salesman for any product you want to think of, just what I do. Right now I'm meeting a client here, a pleasant coincidence don't you think? Can I ask why you aren't drinking a Cappuccino, by the way? I thought Italians lived on them, no offence" asked Webb.

"After this, we go back to my place. I cook you Linguini and make you a _real_ Cappuccino, you'll know the difference. Paris may be the city of romance, but Rome is the city of stories and I learnt how to make good food and drink from people who have practised for generations. The French don't know the difference except for bread, cheese and wine. If you want a proper meal ask an Italian woman. What? Am I being too forwards with you?" asked Monica with a smirk as Webb's eyes widened again.

"No, just very direct. Can I return the favour? If you make me fresh Linguini, I'll feel obliged to eat it all and enjoy every bite, so you'd better make plenty. I'm sure you can fit in Cappuccinos for the two of us at some point" replied Webb, with a grin. From the look in her eyes that lit up that fabulous face, illuminating brilliantly yet again just how beautiful she was, Monica Messolina hadn't missed the hint about what he was really talking about-nor did she mind the suggestion. Webb felt his pulse quicken, then she whipped out a notebook and pen before writing down a number and a name-her mobile number and hotel name and number, he suspected-before ripping off the used page and handing it to him.

"Do _not_ loose this, David Webb, I will be expecting you soon. Is that yours?" asked Monica, staring over his shoulder at something coming towards them. Webb turned and spotted a balding man with greying black hair in his late forties, overweight, thick-set and slow with horn-rim thick silver glasses, sweat-soaked pale cream shorts and t-shirt atop poor-quality brown sandals making him stand out a mile. He was carrying a good quality dark-brown leather briefcase with a very solid-looking golden lock-but what really caught Webb's eye was the tiny red rose tattoo beneath the mans left ear. That identified his Contact, according to the briefing he'd already received.

Stephan Consuelos, American of Greek extraction, Project: Treadstone Paris Section Head, former CIA now active in some grey area of intelligence work under the blanket of the NSA umbrella. He'd said no one would look at him twice when he met Bourne, but _Jesus_... Well, that was that. He made a point of securing Monica's contact number and address in a pocket even as he turned back towards her.

"Afraid so, I have to go. See you soon" he said, to a look of some slight disappointment on that perfect face as he stood up and walked over to Stephan...

Stephan was a long-time professional intelligence Agent, he didn't waste time he didn't have and always made his point quickly. He and Webb barely glanced at each other before Stephan nodded, clearly identifying his Agent, walked over to one of the taller trees and leaned against it as though he was here to enjoy himself and the climate. In reality, Webb knew, Stephan hated extremes of temperature and sunlight because his soft body and excessive appetite for good food from all over the world often made him sick as a dog if he stayed in the sun for too long. He was only standing under the tree because it provided some shade. After this, he'd be back in his air-conditioned office and attacking whatever delicacy he'd managed to gather up today with gusto.

Thoughts of food lead him straight back to a woman sitting less than twenty feet away, whose eyes he could still feel lingering on his body. He cleared his mind with an effort of will, now was _really_ not the time to be entertaining distracting thoughts of _that_ kind.

"David, we have little time so listen closely. I appreciate this is unusual, but all of the details are held in my briefcase as well as mission outline and case briefing, which I can't go into here. You will, of course, memorise them before destroying them" began Stephan, making sure he was almost facing towards the tree to ensure that lip reading would be impossible, or as near as he could get to it.

"To be clear, ESCHELON has picked up communications chatter coming out of Berlin and London concerning a man the Company has wanted dealt with for some time. A minor miracle of sorts, given he travels closed-file and never leaves a paper trail, but this time someone made the mistake of a telephone call using a Code the NSA cracked not that long ago at all, so nobody knows about it. When resolved, the Code revealed a partial travel destination inventory, which gave us enough to put markers on the suspected route. Long story short, he tripped two of them and the second one was on the way in here. We know where he is, were sending you to deal with it. The rest is in the paperwork. Questions?" asked Stephan.

"Just one. Does anyone else even possibly know about this? I work best when I have opponents as opposed to rivals" replied Webb, looking Stephan straight in the eye. Stephan just shook his head.

"Nobody, this is a hot-off-the-wire less than twenty-four hour intercept. For anyone else to know they'd have to have an Agent in his company or risk blowing a very senior asset at the NSA and believe me, its been tried. It failed. Do what you have to do and good luck" said Stephan, before handing over the briefcase, turning and almost waddling off at some speed without saying goodbye-again.

Webb sighed, back to work as usual. As he began to walk away, he thought of Monica again, looked back to get one last good look at that fantasy figure of a woman-and almost paused, confused. A man had appeared from nowhere and sat down in the seat across from her, a man who was holding what looked like a very ornate cross in his left hand which seemed to be holding her attention like a gun in the face would. He was speaking to her, but her face was blank and her eyes almost mirrored, nothing like he'd have expected to see based on just his few stolen moments with her. She'd been as full of life and possibility as anyone he'd ever met, which was saying something. Just what was the man saying to her that was hitting her like that?

He didn't wait to find out. He was a professional, too.

Y

Six hours later he'd read through the documentation, memorised what he needed, shredded everything and tossed the remains in the hotel incinerator after an unseen trip there and back. The case he'd cleaned to remove any evidence and would leave behind when he checked out. No need for any extras.

He reviewed the targets details. Josef Illyich Kukarin, sixty-seven years old, ex-KGB now international Arms Dealer, Drug Smuggler, Racketeer-and Killing Merchant, a cheap way of saying he set up contact between injured parties and the required hired help to permanently remove whatever problem had arisen, could or might be caused. The first three problems the Company could handle and even manipulate if needed, the last problem was very much another matter. People like Josef, who had contacts going back to the old USSR before the fall, could and often did have links with old-school professionals out of KGB Assassination Squads and Spetsnaz killer elites who were out of work with their former masters long gone. These were all very highly trained, very well disciplined, very efficient killing machines who would take any job which paid them enough money to live the way they wanted to.

The people of the world who could afford their rates tended to be the billionaires of industry and politics, a large number of who lived in America. With people like Josef as the middle man expressions like making a killing in the Boardroom took on literal and very bloody meaning, not to mention small but important acts like the CEO's of rival companies suddenly withdrawing hostile bids or retracting derogatory comments when an inexplicable automobile accident hospitalised the Wife and children. That, though, was just in America.

Far less than fussy about clients as long as the money was good, ex-Soviet soldiers, intelligence Agents and other personnel had turned up in Iraq, Afghanistan, the War Zone that the Middle East really was these days and in just about every significant trouble spot around the world. Every time they'd been fighting against American, UN or NATO forces, more often than not they'd also been training guerrillas and terrorists in Special Forces and Intelligence War skills.

Captured Mercenaries and Agents had all seemed to have at least heard of Josef Illyich Kukarin, which meant he was very quickly on the CIA's "Talk to" list, where conversations could often be painful in the extreme for the whole long time they lasted. What had gotten him put on the "Black Book" lists, an Assassination List with TEP marked in large red letters on every file included in a List which did not officially or unofficially exist, was what had happened in Camp Pendleton in Afghanistan mere weeks earlier.

The local CIA Chief had had his head blown off from half a mile away by an assassin using a very specialised Snipers Rifle while he was out on his morning run around the inside of the perimeter fence. The same day, a twelve-Agent CIA team sent to capture or kill a suspected influential Taliban fighter with links to Al'Quaeda had been ambushed and effectively wiped out-two Agents had disappeared without trace. Not long afterwards at all, the same Taliban fighter the Agents had been after had been captured by a Navy SEAL snatch and steal team who had put him on plane to Guantanamo Bay the same day. A month later, he'd finally cracked and one of the first names he'd given up was Josef's.

It hadn't been hard after that to work out that not only was Josef Illyich Kukarin supplying terrorists with weapons and equipment, he was also supplying experienced personnel to train and even lead parts of the groups in question. CIA Analysts had run down all the information they had and come to the conclusion that Josef was doing everything he could to hurt the USA, specifically the CIA, to achieve what little revenge he could hope to with what little time he had left to live. Incredibly embittered by the fall of the USSR in battle with the USA, at least as he saw it, he had tried and failed to move on and was, now an old man, doing what he could to remind everyone that he and his ex-Communist kind had once been a force to be reckoned with.

If Webb had cared at all, he would have found it sad. Stupid, almost pathetic old man raging against the course of history itself, making such feeble efforts to damage the cause of something so much bigger than him and what he could imagine that he was unlikely to ever even realise just how hopeless his cause was. Always had been, if all the cards were down on the table. The only real threat the USSR had ever presented was in Military strength due to its incompetent, disorganised Government and chaotic economy at the best of times. Then the disastrous War in Afghanistan had removed even that threat in real terms. If the massive nation hadn't had nukes and seven million men under arms, not to mention a viciously effective intelligence organisation in the KGB, it would have been just a bigger North Korea.

Webb studied the picture of the old man, black and white on a computer screen, a snapped shot taken five months ago when the CIA had briefly managed to track down Josef, who was exceptionally careful to conceal and distort even his means of transport, let alone the when and the where. Buzz-cut grey hair cut right down to the scalp outlined a large head, big grey spectacles adorned a wrinkled thin face with sharp eyes and thin lips. Josef was naturally thin, tall and bony and probably an athlete in his youth, but now he just looked very, very old-and ill.

In fact, although it couldn't be confirmed, in all likelihood Josef _was_ ill. Seriously ill, since he had been linked with several very highly skilled Doctors who were not easy to reach in Europe and Asia, all of who had tended towards dealing with life-threatening illnesses. Again, an Analysts note added detail based on all available information: most likely, Josef Illyich Kukarin had Brain Cancer which was literally taking his mind away from him a piece at a time, and it was this which had driven him to such extreme actions against the CIA and US forces as long-suppressed rage exploded out of the old mans decaying mind into the world he lived in.

The Analysts could keep the basic Psychological analysis, it was utterly irrelevant to Webb beyond what it told him about Josef's state of mind and likely actions and reactions to any given situation. What the information he had gave him were certain useful facts: Josef would have an arsenal immediately available wherever his Safe House in Paris was, men like him always did. He would as likely make irrational as rational decisions given his damaged and decaying psychological state. Extreme Paranoia was a given, especially with the KGB background added in. His Bodyguards would be well-paid professionals who would be armed with top of the range weapons coming from a man like Josef, men who would likely number from four to six in total.

There was more, plenty more, but he'd made out his mental checklist and had the vital points circled in red in his minds eye. No mission had room for errors or mistakes, this even less than most since if he was somehow taken alive there was _no_ telling what Josef would do or have done to him. But that was why he didn't make any, it was why Project: Treadstone had been reactivated in the first place. People said the CIA had Agents who did its dirty work especially-and they were right. But that missed out people like him, the one's who passed by the ghosts without a whisper and never left the shadows to get the job done.

The Projects whole reason for and purpose in existing was to permanently deal with and remove, by whatever means necessary, as finally as possible, any threat or threats _at all_ to CIA and US interests, in that order, he understood that. He was _good_ at that. The best, even, or so all his trainers and evaluations had said-even Conklin himself.

If he could just remember his real name, maybe he could have convinced himself it was all worthwhile rather than just ultimately necessary. He wasn't "David Webb" any more than he was "Jason Bourne", not really, but Morris Panov had done too good a job on his mind and he began to feel nauseous, even threw up sometimes, whenever he tried to think back to who and what he'd been before the Project. The fact was he'd been left shivering, shaking and so nauseous he couldn't eat, move or talk for over an hour after his one serious attempt to break through the Conditioning and Behavioural Modification he'd been subjected to, an effort nobody but nobody bar him knew about. He hadn't tried again since, it was better that way.

He'd been assigned the name "David Webb" and told this was his off-duty name now, while Jason Bourne was the man he _really_ was. Who was he to argue? Whatever they'd done, whatever they'd turned him into to make him who and what he was, it had worked. Why argue with success?

The existence of people like Josef Illyich Kukarin was the reason for _his_ existence. This was _what he did_. It was time to get to work.

He'd checked out all three of the possible hotels Josef could stay at given what had been intercepted about his travel details and itinerary. All of them were five-star, elegant and richly appointed abodes of the kind only the very rich or those who were never seen or heard stayed in with guaranteed good security and **very** discreet staff. Josef could have gone to any of them and, since he couldn't be in three places at once, he'd worked out a plan. For a few Francs, quite a few Francs, it was amazing how a word in the right ear could get you the attention of the relevant people. A man in every hotel who would be in the right place at the right time had made certain promises in return for a certain amount of hard cash and no questions, people he was certain were reliable. Once he knew for sure, he could move. Now, all he had to do was wait-and prepare.

Out of interest, he pulled out the piece of paper Monica Messolina had given him and checked out on his Laptop where her hotel actually was. When he did, he couldn't help but feel a slight sense of surprise. She was actually closer to all three of his target hotels than he was in his Paris apartment. He could hardly stash his gear and weaponry somewhere nearby while he paid a social visit, though-or could he? Nicky would be keeping tabs on him, of course, but he could work around that. The fact was, Josef wasn't due to arrive at his destination until midnight at the earliest, which gave him almost six hours to kill.

_Could_ he do this? He couldn't possibly compromise the mission, but he was hardly going to be left incapable after just few hours of passion with a woman, even one like Monica, surely? Besides, if he wanted to relax before the mission, what better way to do it? This would be less physically and mentally stressful than even just a workout on his personal fitness equipment or a run around the streets to clear his mind and let him focus.

Enough. No more excuses or putting it off. The fact was, his job was to eliminate Josef and his Bodyguards, along with any inconvenient Witnesses. Then, rip out the Hard Drive of Josef's computer and get it back to Nicky, his Handler, who would get it back to Treadstone HQ and then the CIA proper who would break through Josef's encryptions, passwords and safeguards before utilising all of the information contained as they saw fit. With all of that clear added to the Intel he had, all he needed was a time and a place. He could do this, no question.

First things first, though. He needed to know he was dealing with, for certain, before he did anything else. She'd mentioned she was a Lawyer, he knew she was Italian, so he'd start there.

Thirty minutes later, despite some unexpected developments, particularly just who and what her father was, he was sure she was clean. It was never, ever "safe" for him to relax, as such, but he could fall into the arms of a willing woman very happily and just enjoy himself. Now was the time, in any case.

So thinking, he picked up his "Webb" Mobile and called the number she'd left him. It rang once, then she answered in Italian.

"Sorry, I don't speak Italian, but I'm sure we have plenty to talk about anyway. This is David Webb. You gave me your number in-?" he began, but she cut him off.

"_The Green Leaf café, I remember. So, David, if I can call you that, I presume this is you taking me up on my invitation to try my Linguini?_" Monica replied, her voice a sultry purr in his ear, a sound which made the short hairs on his neck stand on end. A few choice fantasies flashed past his minds eye, but he forced them all out of his head after a very short seconds thought. After all, how likely was it a woman he'd never met before was looking for more than a roll in the hay with some good looking young man she didn't know, probably just for the excitement? Not very likely, at all.

"Yes, yes I am and you can, call me David that is, if your invitation is still open?" he replied, trying and almost failing to keep his voice under control. If he was like this just talking to her, what was he going to be like around her physically? He wanted to find out.

"_I'm a woman of my word, David, trust me on that. I hope to see you in ten minutes, my door will be open, no one will ask questions. You, by the way, can call me Monica_" she said, before adding something in Italian that he grasped enough of the gist of it made him blush. That was practically a first, all by itself...

"I'll be there" he managed to say, then hung up as tinkling laughter, delicious as her remarkable voice, came at him down the line. This, was going to be interesting.

Y

When he got to the hotel he first noticed its size. A full ten floors, opulent but not millionaire-scale expensive, lots of windows, big double entrance doors with two Doormen in hotel uniforms who probably doubled as Security Guards, lots of people visible. A restaurant sat towards the back right of the building, where people were having dinner, drinking wine and even singing on stage as a professional band cheerfully ignored the customers lack of talent and played good music throughout. It looked like a place where the very well off but not "Rich" stayed, which made it very obvious that Monica wasn't short of money.

A quick question and answer with the desk clerk let him know her room was on the ninth floor, so he thanked the man and got into the elevator, deciding to save his strength. He made a point as the elevator rose of setting his watch alarm and checking that his Mobile was turned on, then double-checked to be _sure_. You _could_ over-think a plan of action and even get yourself killed if you acted with or without thought at the wrong time, but once you had a plan the key was to stick to it and deal with the situation as it presented itself _within_ the confines of that plan.

If you ever had to tear everything up and start over or even wing it in the beginning, middle or end of an mission, you were almost certainly dead. Improvisation was one thing, inspired lunacy was another altogether. James Bond would only ever be a film hero for that reason.

Nine times out of ten every professional knew that doing whatever "felt right" at the time, going with "instincts", would leave you dead, gone and lost before you ever knew what had hit you. Instincts were good for keeping you alive and letting you know when someone else was near who shouldn't be, they could sometimes be vital in letting you know if you were right or wrong, but to let them rule your reason was fatal. The mind put together the mission, the body carried it out, anything outside of those two was surplus to requirements and therefore condemned as pointless.

The elevator reached the ninth floor and opened with a ding to signal the fact. He took a deep breath, stepped out and, spotting Monica's room number quickly, walked slowly but steadily towards it...

He walked up to the door, noticed it wasn't completely shut, as promised, pushed it open without knocking and walked inside, closing it behind him with a firm click. It was a large main room with tables, chairs and sofas, a big T.V. with DVD and video players attached and an impressive sound system with wall-mounted speakers.

A Bar was set off to the left, a big flat-top proper wooden effort with shelves of wines and beers behind it as well as a chiller containing more. To his right immediately was a door leading to what was obviously a bathroom, while beyond that was a closed door which had to lead to a bedroom. He could feel a damp heat in the air, which told him that the shower had been used very recently.

However, he couldn't see or tell any more than that easily since the room was in darkness, even with the curtains open, the fader transparent blinds being pulled across to make the outside view blurry at best. Night was falling quickly, as it tended to in the big cities, which only meant that the real day was going to be starting soon for the younger people out to enjoy themselves-and the crazies, like him. The best he could tell from the dimming sunlight was that dark clouds were rolling in, gathering around and about everywhere, growing more threatening every time he looked at a different patch of sky. There was a storm coming in, a big one...

"Paris is supposed to be the most romantic city in the world, David, or so I'm told. Great city, remarkable places to see and go to like the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Notre Dame, the Catacombs if you don't mind old death...? Personally, I think its all wasted on people like us" said Monica, speaking from one of the chairs facing the windows suddenly, actually managing to startle him.

Avoiding his notice, that was no minor trick. He could walk into a room full of people and give a description of every one in photofit detail if he had to, sometimes had, he recognised and remembered people and places like most remembered the most unforgettable day of their lives every time, for reasons good and bad. He hadn't even been sure she was in the room...

She stood up and faced the window, long hair down loose and fresh-washed spread over a black gown that reached down to her knees, up to the edge of her neck. He didn't need to guess to know that she was wearing precisely nothing underneath it and was probably still slick with damp from her recent shower. _That_ body in his arms, smooth, sensual and slick as a wash of water still warm from the tap...his mouth watered.

"People like me, like you? We live in the moment, we own ourselves inside and out, we do _what_ we want _when_ we want, _take_ what we want, live hard and fast, die young laughing and bleeding as the chances we took catch up with us. History is for those who want to live or make it, I want the here and now" said Monica, before turning to face him for the first time. Her gown wasn't belted tightly at the front, the dark valleys and edges of curves it revealed promised any, _every_ Earthly delight...

"How about you?" she asked, looking him in the eyes. His response was less than verbal as he almost charged across the room, lifting her clean off of her feet as he pinned her against the windows, lips locked together like molten metal being welded to his and poured down his throat, fingernails like claws tearing at his clothes as sharp teeth nipped at his tongue and lips. Her legs wrapped around his waist and back with the kind of physical strength that made it very clear to him she was far stronger than she looked as he felt his ribs creak, but so was he, proved as he literally tore away one shoulder of her gown, frustrated with even the loose knot not really holding her gown on her. He wanted her, all of her, _**now**_...

Y

In the event, he was wrong on two counts. Monica Messolina, he discovered with remarkable speed and no small sense of delight, wasn't like anyone else he'd ever known in bed or in person. Someone, something far beyond insatiable, a creature of pure lust and possibilities beyond imagination, she had such an extensive inventory of ideas and acts she wanted to try out, with him and on him, that he was more than half convinced she would literally break him more than once.

He wrenched parts of his body he hadn't even known how to really use before, pushed every muscle he had to its ultimate extreme, discovered that his stamina most certainly was not exceptional-at least compared to hers-and learnt all about every single one of his physical limits in more detail than he could easily take in. They tore the sheets of her bed to pieces, smashed and cracked furniture, almost brought the curtain rail down on both their heads and came close to drowning in a full-blast shower as they held one another under. They put on loud music to cover the screams and, he suspected, ruined all of the carpets...

By remarkable timing, just as they paused for a minute or two to catch their breath, his watch alarm went off. He was, at that moment, washing Monica's hair as they both stood under the shower, standing so close together that the soap and water pressed into both their bodies as they leaned into each other as closely as they could. With an unfettered view and very, very extensive first-hand experience of just what she looked and felt like, intimately, every single one of his fantasies and deepest, most perverted desires were no longer enough. Fantasy? Dream? Goddess? Possibility of only a Writer or an Artists mind? None of these were enough to describe her, none of them went far enough or said anything close to the truth of the woman. Monica Messolina was as unique in possibility and existence as a star in the sky flaring bright and alive for a second before you missed her forever. Truly one of a kind...

As her body twined itself tighter and ever tighter around his, he couldn't help but notice she was giggling like a schoolgirl. Somehow, the sound made him think of things that, even now, he _really_ knew he shouldn't. He wouldn't survive a night with her if he did, he didn't believe that he'd be able to keep up.

He'd been wrong about two things. The first was that just a few hours with a beautiful woman wouldn't leave him exhausted-he already felt shattered, although he had no doubt he could still get the job done. The second was that she'd been looking for just a quick fling with a handsome young man.

In reality, he was sure she _had_ been, but just the physical damage they'd inflicted on their surroundings, what they'd done to each other, the supernova "spark" that had left them clawing at each other as though there was no longer any such thing as too much? The way she was tight against him now, so close that water couldn't get between them, the silken threads of her hair drifting across his shoulders, neck, face and chest, curling around both hands as he delicately washed her hair? What she was doing with her hands and legs? She no longer wanted him to leave.

As he registered the sound of his watch alarm going off, he abruptly noticed his Mobile ringing. For maybe the first time in his professional life he paused, for a moment-then he cursed, shoved open the shower and sprinted for the phone, Monica's grab at his arm slipping off of a combination of soap and water. She snapped out something in Italian which didn't sound pleasant, but he still couldn't understand her so let it pass him by.

"Webb" he barked into the phone, knowing what the call would be about and not wanting to waste time. Fortunately, the person he was talking to didn't either.

"_This is Pierre Monat, monsieur Webb, the man you were looking for has just arrived at the Rista Hotel and his baggage is being unloaded as we speak. Three cars, one with him, a driver and two men I presume are Bodyguards, the other two with four men in each, all of who I judge as ex-Military. His men are advancing through the entire building step by step ahead of him and miss nothing, even staff are being forced clear of him in case. If you still want to talk to him, I would suggest you get here before he settles in or you are more likely to be having a conversation with a gun barrel. Is there anything more?_" asked Pierre.

"Just one thing, thanks Pierre. Can you give me his room number?" replied Webb, trying to sound as neutrally interested as possible.

"_Of course. Room 620, the Penthouse. The cheque is in the mail then, I presume, monsieur?_" replied Pierre, his voice making him sound extremely self-satisfied. Of course, he had good reason to be, the sum agreed on was enough to get most people whose earnings were in the thousands attention. Of course, the money would be coming from Project: Treadstone, not him personally, so it actually didn't matter to him at all.

"Of course, thanks and goodbye Pierre" he replied, then hung up. It was time to move, he had work to do.

A soaking wet hand landed on his shoulder and wrenched him backwards so hard he lost his balance and collapsed into Monica's arms. She caught him effortlessly, span him around to face her and took his head by the chin in one hand with a grip which could have cracked bone if she'd pressed just a little harder. He found himself staring straight into those mesmerising eyes again-and his will to force himself to leave melted away like ice in the summer sun. She studied him for a moment, then smiled slowly. He had no doubt at all that she knew exactly what was going through his head concerning her...

"If you have to leave, David" she said, that remarkable voice alone almost dragging him back to her bed, kicking and screaming, "Then you at least have time to finish my hair first. More to the point, you will have to come _back_, understood?" she said, the steel in her voice and the way she said it letting him know in no uncertain terms that when she spoke like _that_, people did _exactly_ what they were told.

He smiled, he didn't need to force it in the arms of a woman like this. "Yes, ma'am" he said, well aware that he would have to keep a very low profile in Paris after this night, possibly for weeks, which meant _never_ seeing her again in reality. He'd also, of course, have to cut any lines of communication she might try to track him down through, including Stephan if it came to it.

Fortunately, he could live with that for one very good reason. Just the memory of what they'd done together here, over just a few hours, would keep him warm and satisfied for _years_ to come.

He was actually looking forwards to it as he let her lead him back into the hot shower, rather than just looking forwards to the sex as he usually did with some anonymous Prostitute. With her natural liquid grace and agility, he could have just stood and watched her move all day and enjoyed it immensely. He was a connoisseur of the human form and physique, he had to be in his profession, which let him know without hesitation of any sort that this was a woman for whom exquisite was too weak a word. As he felt her press into his body again, felt the silken strands of her hair in his hands, he could only conclude that she was a creature of almost supernatural allure and gifts who had, by some unforeseen act of God, been dropped in his lap for however long he had with her as some kind of reward...

Y

The Rista hotel was two floors taller and even more gaudily opulent than Monica's, he discovered after spending ten more minutes with Monica before racing back to his hotel, getting his gear, jumping into his Hire Car and getting to the Rista in twenty minutes.

He arrived to see all of the Penthouse lights on and blazing despite the late hour, demonstrating accurately the fact that Josef had just arrived. Parking his car around a corner where no one would spot it, he swarmed up the fire escape of a nearby apartment building with a sure-footed skill and perfectly deployed natural agility that made no sound before reaching the roof. Pulling his binoculars from around his neck, he centred on the main room of the apartment and scanned room-to-room.

He rapidly identified eleven separate men, all big, solid-looking types who he would have placed good money as ex-Special Forces, most likely Spetsnaz given Josef's background and history. Not good, Josef could afford the best and the Russian army taught its Specials to be utter savages who were capable of anything to win a fight, unlike the more polite SAS from Britain who would apologise while garrotting you with Piano wire or US Delta Force troops who would fill an enemy with enough lead to let one write a book using a pencil before making sure your remains were treated respectfully.

In both cases, of course, if you'd done anything to piss off the people in question or their bosses before hand, then all bets were off and you might take _weeks_ to die, if you were even allowed to. The Spetsnaz, though, were just like that _all the time_. He'd read still-Classified Top Secret CIA accounts of what Agents on the ground had witnessed the Spetsnaz doing to Mujahideen during the Soviet Unions ten-year War with the population of Afghanistan. Having done so, once he'd been sure he wasn't going to throw up everywhere or kill someone to get the images out of his head, he'd made a mental note to always, _always_ shoot first and ask questions later with the Spetsnaz. His smile was ice cold, certainly he could make good on that here.

Point of egress? The Lobby was out, he'd be recognised even if he wasn't caught on CCTV again-he could only get away with that once, since he lived in Paris anyway. Same for back or side doors. He couldn't convincingly masquerade as a member of staff in a place as secure as this without hours in make-up and an extensive Hacking job since he was sure the hotel electronically logged in and out everyone who worked there. This job simply didn't call for such extensive measures.

Roof egress? Possible, but none of the surrounding buildings within easy distance were tall enough to let him manage more than a crawling climb up to it before working his way down to it. Unnecessary risk, he could conceivably be spotted on the way in by anyone and it would only take one to see him dead.

Which left the direct approach, grapnel gun to a point directly over a main window, hard penetration of the forced entrance fast, take out the lights with a EMP Fuse Bomb which would temporarily shut down the hotel, Silenced kills quick and clean, no fuss little mess. That, he could do. That, he was _good_ at.

He made sure the roof access door for the apartment building he was on was secured first, then went back to his car and got his gear in large bags, making sure he had everything he'd need. That done, he easily made his way back to the roof and prepared.

Dark-black heat killer full-body suit, complete with gloves and full head mask? Check. Starlight goggles for the eyes? Check. Utility belt with possibly necessary electronics gear and chemical agents? Check. Well-secured Terabyte computer memory stick? Check. Twin Silenced and Cleaned 9MM pistols with Armour-Piercing loads plus two magazines for reloads? Check. Twin HALO combat knives strapped one to each forearm? Check. Incendiary bomb to ensure destruction of apartment and any evidence, secured in special miniaturised Backpack? Check. First-Aid Kit for emergencies? Check. Lightweight Kevlar vest? Check. He was ready.

He fired the Grapnel gun using a computer-estimated distance and angle, struck clean and true with his first shot, the Grapnel snapping out and into place with a thump of penetration and locking into place that was inaudible to him and failed to alert anyone in the Penthouse. Leaving his goggles up until he was ready he mounted his motorised Zip-cord on the high-tensile line, braced his hands and feet in the holds and activated it. It took less than thirty seconds to get to the Rista, so when he did he mounted the EMP on the wall, set it for five minutes-a surprise only he knew about was always a good thing-then pulled out a pistol. Three expertly placed shots weakened the glass, failing to attract any attention along the way, so he swung down for one last look,

Glancing around, even just a quick look made him frown. He couldn't see any movement, men just seemed to be slouched around on chairs watching the big T.V., drinking at the bar or in the bedrooms-or the bathroom. Given the kind of enemies Josef had, given that these were Spetsnaz, a silent warning sounded in the mind of the man whose real name, now, was Jason Bourne.

There was no way Josef's men would be this sloppy, let alone this careless, even in a fortified area if they were any sort of professionals. Something was _wrong_...

He span around and away to build some momentum, kicked off hard for a second time and crashed through the window with a crack of splintering glass, as opposed to the horrendous crash there would have been if the window hadn't already been so damaged. He landed smooth and quick, rolled to his feet and shot all four men in sight in the head. Not one of them reacted, at all. Nor did anyone else. This was very, very far from good.

Just as he stood up, the lights went out without a flicker of warning. In less than a second he had his Starlight lens on and active, but there was still nothing out of place. Nobody had moved _or_ reacted. What the _Hell_ was this-?!

It took a few seconds, but the larger situation came to his attention quickly too. No light at all, even from the corridor beyond, not from the outside or lower floors. Whatever had made this apartment dark had affected the entire building, he could hear shouts, the occasional scream, hear people running elsewhere. He had good ears, but right now they were telling him things he didn't want to know. The entire hotel had already been taken down, almost certainly from this room, by someone other than him. He'd been beaten to the act by what had to be an enemy Agent whose agenda he couldn't even guess at.

He moved forwards silently and quickly, checked the dead men-they'd been dead when he'd "killed" them. Two had slit throats, precise and clean, done with a blade at least as sharp as a surgical Scalpel. The third had lost an eye and more than a little blood to a knife through the left eye socket which had penetrated the brain and caused brain death before he'd actually died. The last must have been the last to die, the stunned expression on his face said he'd watched his friends die but not had time to do anything before the killer came after him too. His neck had been broken so completely his head was at a right angle to his body-someone strong had done this, either a dedicated man like him or an truly exceptional woman given the Spetsnaz mans heavy musculature.

Bourne advanced into the next room, five more men were there. Not a mark on them, but they were all dead. Poison, deployed through their drinks, very fast-acting and extremely expert in application. From their postures of relaxation, they'd been watching someone or something in particular all of them could stare at and enjoy when it caught up with them. A woman? More than likely. Was she still here or had she left when they all "fell asleep"? If she was still about, she was most likely dead. If she was still about but not dead, she was excess baggage. It was never personal, he just had a job to do.

He advanced into what passed for a kitchen, not that the Penthouse needed one with the hotel possessing an efficient restaurant, but at this level of wealth they tended to possess all of the amenities, just in case. Behind the kitchen table a tenth man lay dead, bruised and choked and very dead. Bourne had to choke back his bile for all the death he'd seen and caused over the years on seeing just how this man had died, some rare things were just more than he could easily handle. This was one of those things.

The man had been subdued with a severe physical assault which had to have left him barely alive, but he'd clearly been fully conscious when he'd died given the awful expression on his face, the terrifying look in his eyes. Whoever had killed him had disembowelled him, then rammed his intestines into his mouth while strangling him with several feet of slippery, wet red rope. The man had been forced to bite down on his own guts, the blood around his mouth and on his lips told that story.

In the bathroom, the last but one unchecked room, the killer had taken his or her time. The last Bodyguard, another big, physically powerful man, had been in the Jacuzzi when somebody had evidently joined him. He'd then been tied out spread-eagle and gagged inside the Jacuzzi after a blow to the head before being...opened, from gullet to groin. His killer had then reached inside him and evidently started...pulling out whatever was easily to hand, internal organs which now floated freely in the deep-red coloured water that was still bubbling around him, thick red blood filling the pool like a ghastly, lurid dye straight from Hell.

Only Josef was left-and he had to be in the bedroom, very likely with the killer. Bourne no longer cared who or why or what. Nobody bar Paedophiles, Rapists and utter scum of the Earth deserved to die like this. These killings had every sign of a sadistic killer taking his or her time, a professional, exceptionally expert killer who was seriously damaged in the head. Well, he could fix that-_permanently_.

He crept up to the bedroom door, silent as death itself, so careful he wouldn't have alerted a man with his back turned, primed himself-and kicked open the door. He stopped and swore, suddenly sure there was no one there.

Josef was tied to the bed, spread-eagle-and terribly tortured. Burn wounds were all over his body, skin had been flayed from his chest, arms, hands and face in long strips. Blood was running from both empty eye sockets, the missing eyes sitting on the tabletop next to the bed, while both cheeks had been slit open from the edges of the lips right to the ears, exposing teeth and bone in a terrible deaths head rictus. All of his fingers and toes were broken, every extremity bar his head had been savagely mutilated, including his genitals. Whoever had done this had taken their time and been frighteningly thorough, made sure to get everything. Josef's chest rose and fell, so he was, awfully, still alive-

An electronic glow snapped his head around. A Laptop, active and running-what was it doing? He stepped closer to have a good look-the hotels Emergency generators kicked in, flaring lights suddenly blinding him. He had to stop, tear off his Starlight goggles-the knife cut into his left upper arm rather than his throat as his unexpected movement saved his life.

He sensed the presence behind him with no time to imagine how he could possibly have missed someone and kicked backwards hard, colliding with the figure with enough force to knock them both over. Woman, he identified, as his body made contact with a curvy figure which made that very clear. A startled grunt was the only response he got out of her, though, before he span and launched a high kick-which was expertly parried with a forearm before an elbow slammed into his midriff.

Air was blasted out of his lungs by the stunning impact, but he stayed upright and replied with a brutal head butt which connected with a solid crack. The woman staggered backwards shaking her head, but was out the door and running before he could do any more than snap off a single shot which missed her by an inch as he hit the door frame. Forced to catch his breath for a few long seconds, he got out the door five seconds later, just in time to meet a knife thrown at his head, spinning end over end at his face. He ducked fast, but the tip of the blade drew a thin line of blood across his scalp anyway. He aimed towards the attacker, but there was no one there.

He turned sharply again-and took a table to the back of the head which shattered with such force it put him on his knees. A knee slammed to his chin nearly broke his neck and span him over backwards, but he rolled fast and dodged the follow-up kick which would have shattered his skull. He lashed out with a spinning kick counter designed to take out the attackers legs, but she somersaulted backwards and clear with a remarkable grace which was almost...familiar? He snap-kicked to his feet and tossed his pistols, safeties on and locked-a special little extra he built into every weapon he used, nobody could use his weapons but him-before drawing both HALO knives and assuming a CQC combat stance.

Whoever she was, the woman was simply too good, too quick to waste any more time with using firearms he had no time to aim. If that meant hard and sharp, he had absolutely no problem with that. He got a glimpse of a darkly dressed figure moving fast in the area of the room containing the big T.V. now showing fog signals with no sound before charging in himself, hurdling the table and coming straight at his opponent.

She span in to meet him, trying to get under his blades. She didn't quite make it, his left-side knife scoring a small cut across her ribs on the lower right, but she was faster than he was and her right-hand knife drew a line of blood across his upper chest that just failed to crease his ribs as he slammed a kick against her left leg, throwing her off-balance. She was coming at him almost faster than he could follow with two knives of her own, sparks flared as knives struck and blocked, stabbed and slashed at cloth, nicking skin, all so fast he couldn't get a good look at her face or her at his he was sure.

She ended it, though, with an impossible manoeuvre that he wouldn't have believed if he hadn't seen it. From less than a foot away, she took both feet off of the floor with agility no human being should have had and hit him full in the chest, then the head, with rising kicks, her entire strength and weight behind both blows. It was like being punched with a sledgehammer, he was literally blasted from his feet and catapulted a good six feet away from point of impact before he even hit the floor again, knives spinning away in the air uselessly.

Then, for the first time, she said something-or, rather, shouted it in Russian, complete with strong Russian accent, a language which he _did_ speak. She'd just called him capitalist whore-mongering scum-who thought up these insults? Didn't they know the point had disappeared along with the Soviet Union in 1991? More to the point, why was her voice _so_ familiar?

Then, barely able to open his eyes, let alone move, unable to fight, he finally got a good look at her face. At that moment in time, as he took in the impossible with eyes which told him he was already dead, he could have been killed by a loud noise he was so shocked.

"_**MONICA!?**_ What the _**HELL**_ is this-?!" he shouted, not even thinking that someone apart from her might hear him and identify his American accent. There was no way, _no way_, that this was happening-!

"Niet, _not_ Monica, whoever you are, man I do not know. I am _Talia_, daughter of Death. No more talk, stranger. You are dead now" replied Talia, before raising both her knives high and coming at him _fast_.

He could see it in her eyes, a total lack of recognition, a glee at the thought of inflicting pain that he _knew_ Monica didn't have in her. No, Monica was all about the _pleasure_.

_...Talia and Monica Messolina were different people in one mind and body..._

Even as that impossible fact burned its way into his brain, his EMP went off, plunging the hotel into darkness all over again. All he could see was the glint of faint, far-away electrical lights shining on the silver steel of the blades she was wielding against him...

_Los Angeles, four days ago_

"I really don't know how I happened to remember it, Pamela, but I did and I want to know _more_. I don't know why, but I get the definite feeling that this Talia, Monica, whoever she is, holds the key to who and what _I_ am. I have to find her, but I can't do it by myself. I need your help and, more importantly, I need it _quietly_. Will you do this for me? I need a direct answer, yes or no" said Jason Bourne, staring straight into the angry eyes of Pamela Landy as she sat in the chair opposite him in her own home, Nicky's body lying on the floor between them.

"Your unbelievable. You kill a friend and co-worker of mine in my home like _this_ and expect me to _help_ you?! If I could, I'd reach across this table and kill you with my bare hands!" snapped Landy, glaring daggers at him but obviously afraid to move.

"This, despite the fact that I made sure she'd be unmarked and can be given a burial with full honours when, given what she'd done, I could have cut her to pieces and left her blood on every wall of this house? Pamela, I did her a favour, now I'm doing _you_ one by trying this again. You have some idea where I'm going and what I'm doing, but you don't know anything about _why_. If Talia knows me as well as I _think_ she does, _she'll_ be able to make the connection for you. Also, she's a professional assassin...and she's in this country, I happen to know? Still unwilling?" asked Bourne, with a smile which let her know he was offering her too much on a plate to be ignored.

Landy paused, then sighed. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but all right, yes. No guarantees and, be clear, if I get her first I'm keeping her, but we can work something out I should think. Now go, before I change my mind. Remember, by the way, this is _not_ over..." she replied, staring down at Nicky again.

"Done" said Bourne, then he left. Landy just sat staring down at the dead body of her friend, in her home, for some time after that...

/End of Chapter 11. All Reviews welcomed./


	13. Chapter 13

For all disclaimers: See earlier parts.

All Reviews welcomed.

**The Last Day**

_The South China Sea, three days ago_

**Choices are consequences.**

-Talia

Klein was gone, after almost a solid day of talk, discussion and information which had tilted the world Jack knew almost on its axis. He'd always known that he actually knew only one small part of what really went on in the global sense of the world, no matter how much information he received nor how much he was aware of, any intelligence Agent who said otherwise was a fool or a liar. But...he hadn't even heard of the organisation Klein had been telling him all about, been telling him about the aims and ambitions of as far as Covert One had been able to determine, in over thirty years now. Black Book, Closed File, "Eyes Only" right up to POTUS covered with Security and Secrecy stamps of bright, dangerous red as though it had been written in blood...

_**Medusa**_.

That name was dead, that thing was dead, it was like suggesting that that a dead man could come back from Hell to walk the Earth and slaughter those who had done him wrong in life if he felt like it. It didn't change the fact that Jack could sense his past rippling like a snake was hidden in the dusty attic he hid all of his deepest, darkest secrets in-Project:S.A.B. 47 and Project: Christmas came to mind-and he knew that, once again, something he'd long thought lost and forgotten had come back worse than he'd ever known it in life. That was the thing about a life in the intelligence world, he supposed, so many loose ends and unknowns no matter how careful or ruthless you were over the years. Unless you were willing to do things that even _he'd_ never consider, which was a short list...

No matter, this new, old, existing threat was something so insidious that he had no doubt at all Klein had been very much in the right to go to the extreme of physically travelling thousands of miles and taking extreme, machiavellian precautions to be sure the conversation went no further under any circumstances, for any reason. However, he still wasn't sure about the decision to use Jade, from everyone on Earth, secluded and unknown island home being available or not.

Jade was _the_ most Mercenary Agent he'd ever met, including, in no particular order, Irina Derevko-good riddance-Julian Lazarey, or Sark as he preferred to be known, McKennas Cole and countless others. Over thirty years on the job had let him build up considerable knowledge of and experience with such people, after all. Back when he'd first known her, when they'd both been young, fresh and vital, he'd been under no shadow of a doubt she'd have killed anyone but her baby sister, tortured, mutilated or butchered, whatever was required for the right price. To call her utterly ruthless and black-hearted was to miss the point, she'd never cared in the first place. Only material comforts and her sister's safety and health had ever mattered to her.

Had she really changed so much, even over so many years, that she could be trusted with secrets like _this_? Klein thought so, a man Jack would have trusted with his life and had never doubted in thirty-some years of acquaintance, but that didn't mean _he_ did. He knew Jade too well, or had, once...

He sensed the presence of another before he heard the feather-soft footsteps of another individual, someone who wasn't Jade, who couldn't quite manage to be silent enough to escape his ears. He made a point of not tensing up, Jade would have sliced any intruders on her island to ribbons and fed the bits to the wildlife long before they'd reached where he was, near her hidden home on a beach of golden sand. Instead, he looked up and out at the brilliant, warming sun and soaked in its rays, feeling its strength on every part of his exposed body, only the same leggings he'd put on after waking up with Jade providing any cover at all. He'd missed this, he really had, but too many people would remember him in Vietnam if he ever went back properly as opposed to drifting in and out of the shadows.

He caught a trace of a scent, a woman's Apricot and seawater tang, before she stepped in front of him and he got a good look at her. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but somehow she wasn't it.

In her early thirties, the woman had Jades skin colour, slanted eyes that marked the natives of the Far East-although he didn't miss the fact that hers weren't as pronounced as Jades, obviously her father wasn't from this part of the world-and a luxurious mane of thick, black hair. Her eyes were a grey-green but flickered to hazel and grey as the sunlight caught her eyes, while he instantly took in the extraordinary mobility of her face, her physical appearance almost seeming to shift as she just looked at him, chewing her lower lip in an almost teenage gesture.

Her body was long and lean, compact and muscular with the solid muscularity that spoke of extensive physical development over decades, but her slender frame was not naturally that of a Vietnamese woman, lush curves and elegant lines again obviously being a gift from her father, whoever he was or had been. She was wearing a white Sarong dress and sea-blue bikini while her hair fell loose about her shoulders halfway down her back, traces of water on her body and her still-damp hair making it evident she'd just been for a swim in the sea. The final note, though, was the real surprise: she was wearing a pair of dark-brown rimmed slim line glasses with lenses so thin he could barely see them.

He later presumed that the glasses were what had prevented him from immediately recognising her for who she was. After all, he'd never met anyone else with eyes like that in a life full of people and places you could never talk about-or forget.

"Are you my father?" she asked, her first words to him demonstrating an English accent that she had to have picked up in London if his ear for that part of the world was still good-and he was sure it was. Elizabeth Powell had made sure, twenty years ago, that he'd never forget any part of her country he'd been to with her.

"...No, but I'm glad to have met you" he replied quickly, the only reply he could come up with even as he stared at her in a way which he was sure a punch in the face wouldn't have distracted him from. It _couldn't_ be-?!

"Hmm, I think I believe you. But you know who he is, don't you?" she said, pushing her glasses down her nose to look him straight in the eyes. She was beautiful, beyond striking with her mixed heritage providing her the best of both worlds, as well as being almost dangerously alluring, almost intoxicating up close with those remarkable eyes, but Jack knew better than to give in to the offer even made freely. Jade would have let it happen, he was sure, but he couldn't and wouldn't do that to a friend. He wondered whether or not all the blood had literally drained from his face and made him go white as a sheet, as he halfway suspected but hoped it hadn't. Even for him, to say this was just a "shock"...

"Selina!" snapped a sharp voice abruptly, not far behind him as the owner quickly approached. He felt a sudden surge of relief, Jade was going to get rid of the woman. He wasn't even sure he'd have dared speak to her, not if what he'd guessed was true. It was very possible he wouldn't have been able to stop himself from answering her question.

Jade strode up and a brief, loud and animated discussion in the two women's native tongue ensued beyond Selina threw up her hands, span and stormed off, clearly unhappy but obeying her mother. Jack looked over at Jade, who was pointedly making sure Selina had actually left before doing anything else, but made sure Selina was out of earshot before he spoke again.

His grasp of the language was rusty and he'd forgotten some of the words completely after so long away, but he'd understood enough to be sure that Jade had told Selina to shut up and go away, to leave him alone in no uncertain terms. That just made him more sure who her father was, Jade wouldn't want her to even possibly stumble across that sort of information if she didn't know.

"She's yours, I take it?" he asked, starting with what he was sure was really a rhetorical question. The similarity had been far too close, even notwithstanding the fact that the younger woman was here on Jades island unsupervised and unguarded. He'd never needed a map to join the dots, after all.

"You noticed that, then? Yes, try not to let her get to you if she catches up with you again. She may be young, but she got her mothers mind and her father's body, notwithstanding the fact she's shortsighted. She can and does wrap everyone around her little finger, even older men who should know better. You'll tell her things you won't even remember, guaranteed, then live to regret it, yes even you. I take it you worked out who her father is given the look on your face, by the way?" replied Jade, looking out to sea as Selina disappeared from sight entirely around an edge of the islands coastline.

"Yes, although I almost wish I hadn't. If he doesn't know then I can't tell him, now can I? More secrets to keep from my friends, Jade, again and again. I sometimes feel as though even I'm just a secret the CIA rolls out on occasion to sort out its problems then puts back in its toy box, you know that?" replied Jack, closing his eyes and letting the sun soak his face, raised up to the sky.

"Lets swap, Jack, you can have the life that ended in '59 and I'll have the one that ended in 81'. Child Prostitute to ageing and lonely adult Assassin as opposed to teenage nomad and adult Intelligence Agent who's been to Hell and back. Which would you rather, again?" asked Jade, with a soft smile he sensed develop on her face.

"Point taken" replied Jack, opening his eyes and looking at Jade again. He smiled back at her, even as he felt the fingers of her hand curl around his. In fact, he rather enjoyed the sensation of such intimate contact he discovered. Katya Derevko was nothing to him, Irinia Derevko would always possess him, body and Soul, but she'd never truly own him, not with Sydney his touchstone and compass. How long had it been?

"Just so you know, I've only ever loved three women in my life, Jade. My Wife first, the second a woman you don't know-" he began, but Jade cut him off.

"And me? So your not really comfortable with this, especially since you had to believe I was dead for over thirty years just to move on with your life? I understand. I don't blame you either, I told you that. So, one last time, for old times sake? I'm quite sure we'll never meet again or see each other again after this" asked Jade, raising an eyebrow with a sultry smile.

Jack turned around and put both of his arms around her, even as he felt her right leg wrap around his own as she leaned into him for the kiss. "Why not?" he replied, before kissing her passionately for the very last time...

_Los Angeles_

Being on Medical Leave, while hardly a new experience for Sydney Bristow given just how many times she'd been shot, stabbed, beaten, poisoned and tortured over the years, by people who knew exactly what they were doing, was no less boring every time. She was hardly some action junkie who couldn't live without a regular fix of adrenaline, the thrill of the chase and the danger of the mission were only ever really obstacles to be dealt with and overcome and that was that.

She enjoyed herself, yes, but she was smart enough to know that if those things ever became what she lived for, it would well and truly be time to quit. Behaviour of that kind meant you had a death wish, whether or not you realised it and, after loosing two years of her life to a nightmare she didn't think she _wanted_ to remember, really, she wanted to stay as far away from that sort of thing as she could. She had her life back, her _existence_ back, now she wanted and intended to live life to the full until...well, until she either finally caught up with herself or found some small measure of peace that let her fill in the gaping hole in her mind and heart.

She'd been to so many of those meetings, where other people who described their own experiences of loosing time, gaps of weeks, months and even years, that she'd long ago stopped pretending to herself that she was unique in her nightmare. She hadn't, however, ever gotten over the staggering feeling of loss and simple shock she'd received when she'd discovered it was true, that it was all true.

Then, of course, there was the man she'd been introduced to in the CIA secure facility a year ago now, who'd had an operation on his brain to recover 18 months of lost memory in an attempt to make himself complete again. He'd been tortured by the North Koreans, terribly, for months before he'd escaped. His mind had blocked out the memories to keep him from going insane since he couldn't consciously deal with what had been done to him, but he hadn't been able to live with the blanks. Now he lived, permanently, in a padded cell in a straitjacket, worse than dead to the world and his loved one's as he did nothing but slowly walk around and around his cell, eyes blank, responding to nothing and no one.

To think that she'd once been tempted to try that, in utter despair and desperation, lost and trying to find her answers in the bottom of a bottle hidden away from everyone and everything she knew. If Lauren Reed hadn't been there-

She drove that thought out of her head with a vicious effort, refusing yet again to allow herself to remember anything good about the mad bitch who'd come so close to killing her and everyone she cared about, ruining Vaughn's life along the way. If only her mother...

She put on a surge of speed as she jogged across the early morning pavements, sun still rising into a blue sky streaked with traces of wispy white clouds. Her white trainers slammed into the pavement as she pounded concrete and stone, the shock running up over her dark blue leggings-clad legs on into her chest under her light blue sleeveless t-shirt and sports bra right on into the base of her neck where her it connected with the rest of her body.

The physical distraction felt good, it distracted her from the turmoil raging in her head and the simple annoyance she was feeling at the fact she'd been sidelined, even though, for once, she knew Sloane's motives were pure given her near-Breakdown at APO following...well, what had it been? A Flashback? A hallucination? The ghost of a lost memory floating across her minds eye as an after-effect of her head injury? The list of possibilities went on and on.

It was still so early in the morning, barely six thirty, that few people were about, which was a blessing. She was now moving so fast that her ponytail was flying out behind her, really moving at a respectable run. She _really_ didn't want to have to try and explain to anyone just why she was hurtling through the streets like a lunatic, not helped by the fact that she knew she'd be drawing stares wherever she went the way she was moving and acting.

She missed Nadia, they'd gotten into the habit of taking their morning runs together and talking over anything which bothered them on the way, everything from favourite t.v. Programmes-hers was _24_, since she could emphasise with Jack Bauer and the shows format reminded her so strongly of her life. Nadia's was _Without A Trace_, since she still knew so little about herself, her life, her parents, even her own history-too personal issues she wouldn't discuss with Vaughn or even her father. It was a form of bonding, of getting to know one another, which she really enjoyed. She didn't think that she'd _ever_ get used to the fact she had a sister, hoped that she wouldn't in all honesty. She woke up every day and wondered just what Lucky Star she'd made a wish under at the right time to earn this incredible reward, especially after everything she'd been through over the years...

She was passing a Starbucks café when she saw the figure seated outside grimacing at her coffee, then stopped dead as recognition struck like a bullet to the back of the head. She _knew_ that woman, but she'd never _seen_ her before-?!

"_I never touch before I taste_"

"_But I always have what I want_"

Full bee-stung ruby red lips that almost seemed to shift like blood moved to a smile as the woman saw her. White shirt, black skirt and office jacket, jacket hung over the back of her chair, black business shoes, smart dark-brown leather briefcase settled to her right, long silky hair held in a loose tail down her back secured at the base of the skull with a hair band.

None of it took away from the fact that the woman was the meaning of the words "luxuriously beautiful", with thick silky hair, the kind of firm-bodied curving physique that was the Sin of lust itself in any eyes and a flawless, impossibly perfect Roman beauty. All of it also failed to take away from one thing, the most important thing-her eyes, dark, gold-flecked mahogany brown glimpses of intelligence, knowledge and experience that Sydney immediately wanted to know more of, _did_ know more of...

Just who was this woman to her? _What_ were they to each other? If what she'd...seen and heard, just so far, was any indication, she wasn't sure she wanted to know. But that didn't mean she didn't _need_ to.

She'd walked over to stand by the woman's table before she even knew what she was doing, where she noticed that the woman had a second cup of coffee set next to her with a chair pulled out and ready by it. She sat down without being asked, sampled the coffee-it was strong, with one sugar and a light helping of cream, just the way she liked it. She put it down, clutched the foam cup tightly enough to prevent her hands from shaking, making sure she didn't accidentally crush it and spill hot coffee all over herself, then finally managed to work up the nerve to look at the other woman. The woman had pulled out a newspaper Crossword from her briefcase and was quickly solving it, given her quick writing and marking with the black pen she was a long moment, she looked back at Sydney and set the Crossword aside.

"Monica Messolina, since you don't remember, Ms. Thorne" began the woman, almost causing Sydney's jaw to drop with her first words. The number of people who knew she'd _ever_ used that name was a very small, very select group that held precisely one member outside of her inner circle in the CIA and some very senior officials, the officially dead Will Tippen. That same group made up the entirety of people who knew the truth about her Undercover lost double life, so anyone who opened a conversation with that name was either serious trouble or someone she'd met and couldn't remember from back then. This woman was, most certainly, from the latter group. What did that _mean_, though?

"Julia Thorne was just a name I used while I was working with you, you do know that, right?" Sydney replied, almost hopefully. She honestly wasn't sure what response she'd get to stating that, but hoped it would at least be helpful to her somehow.

"Ms. Thorne, you retained me as your Lawyer for a over a year, made sure I knew what I needed to know and when to act on certain of what I knew. You left me specific instructions regarding particular individuals, what to do in the event of your death _and_ what to do in the event of your disappearance. What name you choose to use is irrelevant as long as I can be certain that I am dealing with a definite individual. However, since I was recently visited by men with guns and knives asking questions about you threatening me with extreme physical violence if I did not answer their questions, I fear that I have had to break protocol and come to you directly. Nobody has followed me, I assure you of that" replied Monica, sipping her coffee again and, once more, making a face.

"This is awful coffee, by the way. How on earth do you bear drinking it day to day?" asked Monica, placing her coffee back on the table they were sitting at in a way which made clear she had no intention of even touching it again.

"By looking forwards to the more exotic and tasty blends you get to sample when abroad or via mail order if you know what you want, even what you might like to try. Assuming I believe that you were my Lawyer back then and have not been followed, that you have been following my instructions not to make contact until now. How did you find me? More to the point, _why_ have you found me?" asked Sydney, trying to resist the urge to drum her fingers on the tabletop, a definite sign of nerves. She had butterflies in her stomach, but that hadn't happened to her since her earliest days on the job. Just what _was_ this woman to do this to her, _who_ was she? What were they to one another, most important of all?

"I have something to tell you and something to give you. You will find both things...surprising, if, as I have been led to believe, you have no memory of the time you and I knew each other. One hears things, before you ask, since I know you will. You did come back from the "dead" with a different identity after all, that much a Public Records check reveals. Only people who knew you during the time you were...away know the rest, or even suspect, I do not doubt" said Monica, quietly. It didn't matter, she had no need to say anything else.

"Alright, I suppose that I asked for that. Start at the beginning, what is it you have to tell me?" asked Sydney, settling back into her chair in another attempt to relax.

"Very simple, a verbal message you left me. _Truth takes time_. You told me only to deliver it should you disappear and reappear under these precise circumstances, stated that you would understand even if I didn't. I see by the look on your face that you do" said Monica with a smile, as Sydney's eyes went wide.

She swallowed, her throat feeling like the Sahara Desert even as she licked suddenly dry lips. _Truth takes time_, a message sent to her by her mother almost four years ago. A message with a meaning so personal to her that she would know, simply know, for sure, that anyone who said it was once and for all for real. She wouldn't have admitted the true meaning of those words to her even under torture so severe that she would have screamed out every single one of her deepest, darkest secrets just to make the pain stop without hesitation, this was dead cold _fact_. She'd only have told someone who she trusted _implicitly_, with her life and more, to let her know they were telling the truth.

"I understand. Go on, what else is there?" asked Sydney, suddenly completely sure that this was all true. That was when she noticed, even as her instincts abruptly warned her of unexpected company and her radar warning her of immediate and very serious trouble went off, that they were no longer alone. Monica was already looking at something behind her, something distracting enough that her attention had been completely diverted...

A sudden clatter of chairs sounded, then three men sat down at the table around them, one either side of Monica, putting one of them next to her, while the third man sat down so close to her, away from Monica, that he was almost literally breathing down her neck. She immediately tagged the first two as thugs, hired muscle designed to intimidate and scare who probably had military training at the very least. They were dressed in light clothes with loose shirts, under which she had no doubt guns were hidden. More than likely they had ankle holsters holding Backups and a knife each somewhere on their body. The third, though, was trouble.

Sharp-suited in tailor-made dark clothes with dark, wavy hair, ice-grey eyes, black sunglasses and a reptiles lack of expression, his expressionless face and dead eyes failed to conceal anything of the fact that this was a man who made his living by knowing everything there was to know about pain and information concerning it. About forty years old, trim and slimly muscular, he had a pianists elegant hands-and she had no doubt at all that he'd done things with those hands that would wake even her father up in a cold sweat during the night. He almost literally stank of pain, fear and loss of every kind, in the same way he stank of a terrible kind of corruption that only ever existed in the worst kind of creature, one that had tossed away and forgotten humanity as inconvenient long ago.

To call the man a monster was to sell him short. This was the kind of individual the Nazi's would have employed during the Second World War to deal with particularly troubling prisoners. Terribly intelligent and razor sharp with a bleeding edge constantly exposed for the world to see, he was the part of themselves anyone possessed of their sanity hid from in the shadows and Prayed never to meet. He was also, currently, looking at her in a way which suggested he was considering what she could live without should she prove a problem for him. Sight, sound, taste, beauty, health...

"My name is Samael, Ms. Thorne. We've never met, although I understand you wouldn't remember me even if we had despite the fact we both once worked for the Covenant. This is the period of your life I wish to discuss, however, so need's must. Now, shall we make this easy? What do you remember?" asked Samael, his tone gentle, his voice soft. Something about the way he said it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She understood that she was dealing with someone capable of anything, here, she would have to be _very_ careful...

"Fragments, nothing real, bits and pieces, flotsam on the edge of darkness trying to fill in a hole I can't even understand. You are aware that Julia Catherine Thorne isn't my-" Sydney began, but she was stopped dead by a sudden sharp slap of such force it snapped her head around.

For a second she was too shocked to react, then she sprang out of her chair at him-only to stop dead barely an inch out of her seat. His hand was wrapped around her throat with a deceptive gentleness, she had no doubt at all that he could have crushed her windpipe before she could even have breathed in. He'd put his hand around her throat so fast she hadn't even registered the _movement_...

"Please only speak when spoken to, or I will be forced to discipline you with excessive severity since my employer was extremely specific about what lengths I should expect to have to go to in any attempt at extracting information from you. Such a beautiful woman should not spoil herself so quickly, no? Now, you say you remember almost nothing, so I will attempt to assist your recall. What do you know about the Rambaldi Ark? The Evolution Cadre and their aims, their means?" asked Samael.

Her cheek was throbbing, the man unquestionably knew how to throw a very solid punch. Didn't matter, he wasn't going to get an answer here, no matter what he said or did.

"I'm going to kill you" she replied, very simply, meaning every word. This was not a statement of intention, he simply was dead from the moment she said it. People sometimes forgot she was her mother's daughter as well as her fathers. More to the point, _nobody_ was a more accomplished killer than Irina Derevko, her mother, no matter what anyone said. She'd heard rumours, trying to investigate her mothers past in her home country, that the Derevko line had taken in too great a quantity and quality of the Siberian cold of Russia over a great many years.

It wasn't just blood that flowed in the veins of her mother and her mothers family any more, it was said, it was mixed with a cold, dark, forgotten thing that had no business being anywhere but lost in the distant past of the bloody, nightmare history of Russia. Sometimes, Sydney even let herself believe it, deliberately reminded herself of it-like now. Blood answered blood.

Samael simply sat looking at her for a long moment, even as one of the other two men sighed and relaxed back into his chair, then he nodded slowly, removing his hand from her throat. His odd look had changed slightly, Sydney almost felt that she detected traces of respect buried deep down inside.

"I believe you, but not now, not until were done, should you live through it. You are aware that there is a surgical option, should you truly not recall anything?" asked Samael. She knew he meant that he'd force it on her if she refused, or if she just couldn't tell him what he wanted to know. Since she didn't know what the surgery would do to her, wasn't even sure she didn't want it done anyway, she wasn't at all sure how to answer him...

The second man sighed and relaxed into his chair. Sydney actually found that more distracting than the fact that Samael wasn't blinking, it was as though his concentration and focus was so completely on her that the rest of his body was merely along for the ride.

Why were both of the heavies relaxing under these circumstances? They had to have been told who and what she was. Julia Thorne's reputation, from what she'd been able to discover in the time since she'd come back to life, had been even more formidable. She'd reportedly carved up someone who had crossed her once so badly that they'd never, ever used their arms and legs again, just to make a point. She still didn't know whether or not that one was a Covenant plant, come to think of it...

"I know that", she said before pausing, "But you don't understand why I had the wipe done. Things are very fragile up there, locked away for a better reason than you can imagine no matter what you think you know. Hell, _I_ don't know why I had my mind wiped, but the fact is I _do_ know I would never have done anything so drastic without there being knowledge in my head from "then" _nobody_ should have now. Are you willing to take that chance? If you find out what I'm _really_ hiding, I think you should have to consider the possibility that you'll be killed in public should anyone discover that you know the truth. You'll never feel safe again because you never _will_ be safe again..." said Sydney, slowly, making sure that Samael understood every word.

He just shrugged, not impressed. "Risk is part of the game we play, Ms. Thorne, it makes life interesting and keeps us going all night long. Now, since you clearly intend to make the attempt to engage me in mind games, allow me to begin. Just why _was_ your father imprisoned by the NSA at the end of 2003? Have you ever even asked? I say this because I wonder if you realise just what _you_ gave up when you had your mind wiped. We can and will fix that, no matter what it takes" said Samael, before leaning back, looking utterly relaxed and sure of himself.

Sydney already hated him, he'd neatly parried her attempt at undermining his confidence and thrown in a titbit of information that was just enough to draw her further into the set-up. A professional, unquestionably, one who could almost certainly, a fact exceptional by itself, take her in any physical fight. Still, that didn't mean she shouldn't try, especially since she had more than a few dirty tricks up her sleeve...

Without any warning and without even the slightest hint of hesitation, Monica abruptly reached across the table and tore Samael's windpipe out with two extended fingers wielded like a blade. Blood gouted momentarily from the horrified Samael's throat, even as he desperately tried to stagger to his feet, clasp his hands over the massive wound-but he collapsed back into his seat, dead in seconds, awkwardly supported in a position which resembled a seated posture. Even as he died, a fly landed on one of the others men's eyes, walked across his face and into his open mouth before coming back out again and taking off. He didn't move or react at all, for the very simple reason that he wasn't breathing...

Monica pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and cleaned the blood off of her fingertips with casual disinterest, licking them to make sure before looking back at Sydney. With a sigh, she reached into her briefcase and extracted a CD disc-no, a DVD, Sydney realised suddenly. Just as she thought that, considering so mundane a thing, her shocked brain finally registered precisely what she'd just seen.

"The thing I had to show you was this, Julia. Ick, mess, I hate making this sort of thing public" said Monica, sliding the DVD across the table to Sydney before retrieving her jacket and sliding it on, collecting her briefcase once she had. With that, she rose and turned to leave.

"Wait wait wait WAIT... You can't just...you...these men are DEAD, you have to...Your..." Sydney said, stumbling over every word and not even sure what she was saying or doing. This was crazy, she dealt with this sort of thing almost on a daily basis, why would she suddenly get so tongue-tied?!

"Please don't try to arrest me, Sydney, I'd really hate to have to knock you unconscious. Don't come looking for me, either, or tell anyone exactly what happened here, unless you want everyone from Director Chase on down to every local paparazzi following you everywhere, monitoring everything you say and do. We'll see each other again, trust me. It's all in the newspaper, the DVD just fills in some blanks. Goodbye, for now" said Monica, before turning to leave again.

It took the disorientated Sydney a moment to realise that Monica was right, she wasn't going to arrest her, or even try to. Why? She didn't know, but she _couldn't_ leave it at that.

"Look, just...WAIT, just hold on..." said Sydney, scrambling to her feet and going after Monica, who didn't slow down at all or even look at her. Sydney kept up easily regardless, Monica was only striding steadily onwards towards wherever she was going, hardly hurrying. Sydney settled into a stride that kept her level with the long-legged woman, then tried to catch her eye but failed. She was forced to settle for the next best thing.

"I never touch before I taste, but I always have what I want" said Sydney, clearly and distinctly. Monica stopped so sharply Sydney almost fell over, turned to look straight at her with an expression that Sydney couldn't hope to understand on her face. The look in her eyes...Sydney didn't want to dwell on that, either.

"You remember that?" asked Monica, the slightest of catches in her voice as she spoke. The woman's voice had gone almost husky, Sydney noticed...

"Some little part of it. I remember the two of us together, I remember the knife, flashes of why and what, but its like I only have pieces of the puzzle and can't find the rest. I don't have and can't put together the whole picture, for whatever reason. Can you help me with that? Can you tell me what we were? Who were we to each other?" asked Sydney, almost holding her breath at the possibilities. There was _no_ telling what this woman knew, she could know _everything_...

"What your recalling is the first time the two of us slept together. It is a tradition I have before taking a new Lover, I always taste them with a silver knife before letting them know me. Even you were no exception. As to why you don't remember the rest... Julia, I'm the wrong person to ask and the _right_ person, she-who-knows, is not an individual you should _ever_ go looking for. If she hears about this, she'll find _you_, leave it at that. You should read the newspaper more, by the way, it has all sorts of interesting things in it these days. Now _don't_ follow me, I had an hour to contact you and am not going to waste time dodging the CIA because I let myself be even a trace sentimental. Good luck, for what its worth" said Monica, before she turned and walked away again.

_**Talia.**_

_**Deaths Assassin.**_

_**Hades Herald, Thanatos Truth.**_

This time Sydney didn't even try to stop or follow her, even though she could never have explained why. She quickly recalled the newspaper Monica had left sitting on their table, though-as well as the three dead bodies now seated around it. She almost felt ill at the thought, then started to feel panicky as she realised she had no way of proving to anyone that she'd had nothing to do with a triple Murder-she caught sight of the table and simply stopped.

All of the chairs were neatly back in position, the newspaper was where it had been left, money had been placed under Monica's half-empty coffee cup to cover the bill-and all of the bodies were simply gone. There was no sign of blood, violence or even the random, disorganised chaos associated with the abrupt exit of two hurrying human beings. The scene had been professionally cleaned in less than five minutes without even attracting her attention...

Under almost any other circumstances, she would have been very impressed and _very_ angry. Given the situation she was in, she was, a rare experience for her, both slightly disturbed and slightly scared. Whoever "Monica Messolina" really was, whoever she had helping her, they were bleeding edge supremely efficient and effective professionals all. A top-of-the-range CIA Housecleaning team couldn't have pulled this off so cleanly...

She made a mental note to only investigate this herself until she had a better idea what she was dealing with, more to the point _who_ she was dealing with. The one person she would have gone to for help with this was her father, who knew how these things worked better than anyone. Sloane, the only other serious option, she wouldn't even consider except as a drop-dead-last final and no other option solution. Everyone else might have wanted to help, but given the calibre of Agent she was evidently dealing with she might as well have asked them to paint targets on their backs. No, this had to be silent, utterly silent, up and down the line, or it couldn't happen at all.

She strolled back to the table as though she hadn't a care in the world, drawing on every acting skill she possessed to give the impression that this was actually the case, picked up the newspaper as though she just wanted to scan it then wandered off with it down the road. Once she was far enough away, she quickly scanned the pages, but a lucky guess lead her to the right place to begin with. The Crossword, Monica had filled the whole thing in but she'd circled and numbered certain words. Sydney took them all into her head and juggled them around until they made sense. What she came up with was an odd result, to say the least. It spelt out three words:

_The Prometheus Descent_

What did that mean? She, for one, had no idea. Or did she? Somehow, someway, that rang a very faint bell...

_Virginia, USA_

The car coasted to a stop not that far down the road from Alex Conklin's estate, the engine slowing down to idling as they sat staring at the big fences and main gate, all centred by what amounted to a gatehouse where the main gate was situated, a raised, solid one-storey stone and wood structure with large glass windows designed to give a clear 360 degree view everywhere the guards inside looked. They could undoubtedly see the car, so were likely on the phone to Conklin even as it did no more than simply sit still and almost silent before approaching the entrance properly.

Kate Aquila turned in her seat to look at Gibbs again, taking in his almost clenched hands on the steering wheel, the hard line his lips were set in, the set of his face, the tenseness of muscle evident even under his clothes. He was angry at something, or just very pissed off with Conklin for some reason. No matter what it was really about he looked like he wanted to strangle someone, which was not the best state of mind or body to be in when conducting interviews which were likely to be exceptionally tricky, at the very least. However, based on just what she'd seen of him just so far, she didn't doubt that this was just his way of venting before he did something he really didn't want to do. Getting it out now was better than having it come out then, when it could screw up everything.

In the back, seatbelt securely fastened, Katherine Larien sat still and quiet, just waiting for Gibbs to clear his mind and focus. She was obviously used to Gibbs methods and means, unsurprisingly. Kate had to wonder, though, how she'd deal with a man who'd been moving in intelligence circles for so long that he could give first-hand accounts of Missions going all the way back to the Suez Crisis in '56, especially given the fact that Conklin wasn't the kind of man who would ever really Retire while he was still alive. She could see Conklin, if he lived that long, planning and coordinating CIA Field Missions at ninety if even half of what she'd heard about him was true.

"Into the belly of the beast... You are sure about this, Gibbs? Bringing me in makes sense, to throw Conklin off with the arrival of a strange face he won't know and can't anticipate, plus Kate's a Profiler. But, Conklin's been playing head games for more than fifty years, fooling people who's whole lives have been built on lying and telling you a different truth. I'm not going to tell you how to run your operation, but Conklin won't be distracted by a pretty face and we both know it. How can we be sure that he won't hand us a pack of lies and leave us to run down nonsense just to get rid of us?" asked Kate, looking at Gibbs pointedly.

"I'll know when he's lying, Katherine will be able to tell why. Your there to force him to think about it. Denton won't find anything at Devlin's house, I knew that when I sent him there, so this is our best bet and I have to handle it myself. Any other questions, or can we continue?" replied Gibbs, sharply.

Kate raised her hands in mock surrender. "Lead on, I want to see this" she replied, at which Gibbs gunned the engine and they drove on to the gatehouse. Five minutes later, after their identities were confirmed, they were admitted and Gibbs drove them up to the front entrance, parking in provided spaces to one side of the house.

They all got out and walked to the front entrance, where they were admitted by a smartly dressed middle aged solidly built man with the kind of physique and bearing which let Kate identify him as former Special Forces, likely a Vietnam Veteran. She also noted the concealed handgun at the base of his spine under his shirt, almost hidden by his grey suit jacket. A man who would fight like Hell, go down killing and be almost impossible to stop unless he was dead, she had no doubt whatsoever. A man like Conklin had access to and would only hire the very best.

That simple fact didn't save the two guardsmen in the gatehouse, who were both dead less than five minutes after Kate and her companions arrived. Conklin's Security System had been designed and created by genius MIT graduates working for the CIA who had been told nothing about where the system was going or who wanted it. Without the right codes and clearances it should have been impossible to bypass, even the attempt to deactivate it should have caused a Flash Alert in the main house which would have fired off a red alert to every local law enforcement and intelligence Agency Agent. None of this prevented the group of silent, stealthy armed men leaving the system itself functioning but all of the alarms and alerts deactivated as they made their way deeper into the grounds from all directions...

/End of Chapter 12. All Reviews welcomed./


	14. Chapter 14

For all disclaimers: see earlier parts.

All Reviews welcomed.

**The Last Day**

_Los Angeles, three days ago_

Sydney got back to her apartment quickly after her bizarre, frightening if she was being honest, encounter with the woman who called herself Monica Messolina. She wasn't scared, or even really shaken, she'd been through and witnessed far worse than even triple murder being committed right in front of her by a stranger in her time with SD-6, but she couldn't force the memory of what had happened out of her head. Why was very simple, one word: _efficiency_.

She'd been around a _lot_ of killers in her time, of every description, everywhere she could think of she'd ever been, but... Most of them had been blood, guts and chaos at best. Very few had had the real skill necessary to commit the kill quick, clean and quiet, a short list Julian Lazarey, who she preferred as Sark, was on. An even shorter list, which Anna Espinosa was on, could commit a Murder so flawlessly that you'd have trouble finding the signs of unnatural death if you didn't know what to look for.

This, though? This...

The only comparison she could reasonably think of was Jason Bourne himself, if he really was _everything_ they said he was. The woman had killed two men, right in front of her, without her even realising that either was dead, then displayed the morality of a sociopath in reaction to what she'd done. That, or she was a truly cold-blooded killer... Great, the woman of her dreams, literally in this case, was off of any chart where comparison was concerned. All their first meeting had taught her was that she knew _less_ than nothing about whoever the woman really was, let alone what she did.

_That_ needed to change, urgently. Thankfully, her temporary removal from active duty didn't mean she'd lost access to APO's network and resources, so she pulled out her Laptop and booted it up-then paused. A moment later, she logged out of APO's network and shifted to a general Search. She couldn't easily have answered why, but it felt right. There was something in the back of her head telling her that she should keep this to herself. It was the same kind of something which had allowed her to recognise Cole when she'd first laid eyes on him, the same kind of something which had dragged that scene from a fire fight in a bank somewhere out of her hidden, lost memory to bring to her another figure, an individual, a woman she still didn't know-or was it remember? It was a "something" she was starting to realise she needed to listen to, just like she trusted her instincts, so she would.

She set up on the living room table, seating herself on the sofa comfortably, poured herself a glass of water, sipped it and got started. Where to begin was easy, it was where whatever she found out led her that concerned her...

The most surprising thing, Sydney almost immediately discovered, was that the woman had given her a real name. Why? That was anyone's guess.

The search on her Laptop produced an unexpected first result. _Giancarlo_ Messolina, forty-year Lawyer with his own Websites, personal and business related. Personal details were blocked by Firewalls, but different contact addresses were given on each site. A professional brief made it clear that the man had the morals of an alley cat and was as slippery as a wet Eel in his craft, with an ice-cold ruthless disregard for anything inconvenient in his Cases, such as the truth, when it might get in his way. Previous clients of every kind were listed to show Giancarlo wasn't picky as long as you could pay-but Sydney recognised some of the names.

Over the years, Giancarlo had represented everyone from innocent men on the street whose only income had been from donations, men who had been set up or just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, to professional criminals who had spent sixty years making life a living Hell for any number of people as hardened Mafia soldiers and "personnel". Professional killers, madmen, savage thugs who would do anything to anyone for enough money, corrupt Politicians who had used Blackmail and Murder to reach the heights of power, professional fraudsters, corrupt public servants of any description, accountants who had creamed off a Retirement fund from their clients investments and ruined hundreds of lives...the list went on and on. The most obvious point was that he had never, not once in his life, lost a Case.

A quote from a disgusted Italian Magistrate suggested he believed Giancarlo Messolina could and would have represented the Devil himself before God on Judgement Day for enough money-and probably won the Case. This...was not a good sign. The personal details made clear that Giancarlo was a very successful high-stakes Gambler, which only made sense, a fabulously wealthy man with an insatiable taste for rich food, fine wine and utterly uninhibited beautiful women who didn't mind being paid for spending the night, he appeared to live in a palatial villa on the outskirts of Rome.

Sydney looked around for anything useful to do with Monica herself-and discovered her name listed under "Partners" on Giancarlo's professional Website. A bullet-point list of important details, such as contact number, age and Cases, was listed clearly. She'd started practising as a professional Lawyer in 1993 at the age of 23 and, after fourteen years on the job, was her fathers only Partner in his business. Her list of Cases was far less extensive than her fathers, but every one of them was a win for her...

She went back out and looked up Monica more directly. Oddly enough, there was a Website focusing on her that wasn't evidently maintained by her or her father which appeared to give an accurate Biography as well as a personal and professional history. It was maintained by someone only identified as "Talia", which seemed an odd name to choose...

Mothers name was Sandrine Juilleriat, of Swiss extraction, now a high-order investigator for the UN concerning War Crimes, political interference, Cover-Ups, mass fraud, any form of corruption that came under the UN Charter-obviously, she was one of the organisations "Go-To" people when things got "sticky". When she'd met Giancarlo in 1969 she'd just been an honest young woman earning a living out of being an investigator for Swiss banks concerning fraud, theft, financial irregularities-and, quietly, bank accounts dating back to World War II. The banks could only close the accounts if no living relative existed to claim the funds, unless the relatives could be bought off or "persuaded" otherwise. Sandrine Juilleriat, it was obvious, had been very talented with the last issues in particular, which had made her particularly popular and effective with the banks.

Young and a little naïve despite this, apparently, Sandrine had evidently fallen head over heels for the silver-tongued, rich and handsome young Lawyer Giancarlo Messolina in 1969 after being sweet-talked into his bed-then, apparently, into giving up her secrets, given an evident public bust-up the details of which were sketchy even now. He'd soothed her wounded ego and professional pride by Marrying her-his second Wife, after his Arranged first Marriage ended in 1965 when he was just twenty-five. She'd become Pregnant and delivered their only child in 1970-Monica herself-in Naples. However, unable to stand Giancarlo's dishonesty, public promiscuity, disloyalty and total lack of either evident care or attention towards her, only the fact they'd both been and clearly were exceptionally stubborn kept their sham of a Marriage going until 1975, when they Divorced and saw each other for the last time.

Monica had been left with her father as a result of his Lawyer skills, but he was at best an absent father and she lived off of his riches, doing whatever she liked while he lived entirely apart from her. Her youthful exploits, if true, made her early life worthy of a TV. Series titled "How to have your cake and eat it" as she seduced, manipulated, abused, out-thought, out-fought and out-sexed every single one of the many, many people she met, used , broke and abandoned until she was 18. She'd left a devastating trail of broken hearts, ruined minds and destroyed lives behind her like so much flotsam as she went and evidently never looked back-worse, she'd had no reason too. She didn't make mistakes of that nature, quite clearly.

At 18 she'd gone to the University of Rome but left within a year, describing it as "boring". Instead, she'd gone to Yale in the USA-where she'd graduated with a First Class Law Degree along with every Honour and Commendation there was. A Scanned Yearbook entry listed her as "One most likely to change the world", which was a somewhat unusual comment to make. She'd then gone back to Italy to work with her father, ignoring headhunting attempts from most of the big firms on the planet, where, on qualifying for practising at the Italian Bar, she'd been made a Partner in her fathers business as an evident reward for her loyalty.

That was really it as regards useful personal information, her Case list and a surprisingly detailed travel itinerary were all that was left. That just made it worse, however, because a link from her Case list led to a list of Clients. The list read like a "Who's Who" of international and domestic figures ranging from North America to Europe to Asia, on down into South America and Africa with only a brief mention of Australia and New Zealand. Monica Messolina, just to begin with, had links to President Bush from her first try at aiding and assisting in a Political campaign as a Legal consultant-she'd been on his legal team in the 98' Campaign which had seen the man into office in the first place.

The woman had links with more Government Agencies and even Heads of State than most Ambassadors did, inside and outside the USA. On top of which she had links and connections with organisations like the UN, the Red Cross, various Human Rights groups all over the world, private Political bodies of all descriptions. Numerous commendations were available for viewing, from people who were _not_ the type to give their praise and commendation lightly. One commendation was signed by a former President of the USA, another by the current one...

A cold-blooded killer with links up to the Gods, who had people with unimpeachable reputations across the entire world almost certainly willing and able to stand up in Court and say that she was not capable of Murder. If she took another look at that kind of background and list of what amounted to Contacts, Sydney almost felt that she might as well give up in despair. She'd need proof that would have been enough to convince a Jury an admitted Communist in the early 50's wasn't and was, in fact, a truly dedicated patriot who'd been depressed on the day he'd been questioned, in front of the HUAC and McCarthy himself, to nail Monica Messolina. Probably even with APO's resources invested in digging up her every dirty secret.

Making a mental note to keep looking regardless, not to forget, Sydney backed out of her search and began a new one. She tried it on Google first, simply entering _The Prometheus Descent_ to see what came back, expecting bad old films or something equally ridiculous. Most of what she got related to the Gods of the ancient Greeks and Roman Empire, but there were two exceptions.

The first was an article, published by "Anonymous" in 2002, concerning a suspected massive underground complex concealed somewhere in the Middle East or Africa which had been running for decades. It had supposedly been supplying an entire continents worth of weaponry and explosives which kept all of the rebels, freedom fighters, terrorists, Dictatorships and authoritarian groups both armed and in power, for the right price. The creator/founder and possibly current leader of the organisation was an unknown individual who answered to the name of "Prometheus" but was rumoured to be a veteran of WWII, possibly a Russian who had escaped Stalin's Gulags. Never seen and otherwise unknown, he was as close to a complete enigma as anyone knew-supposedly.

The second find was...odd. She wasn't even sure what it _was_.

It was a picture of some sort, four women standing around what appeared to be a cave entrance, one leading deep underground somewhere. Given the arid surroundings, excess sand and baked landscape, she'd have guessed that the picture had been taken somewhere far south of the Equator, deep inside Africa most likely. Oddly, apart from the yellow sand, bright blue cloudless sky and grey stone interior of the cave, leading on into a deeper darkness, the picture was out of focus regarding each of the individuals in it. Only posture and evident body language, along with long hair in three cases, let her identify the individuals in question as even human and of a specific gender. She had enough experience with photography to be sure that the photo was recent given the colours and sharpness evident-but by who? When, _precisely_?

Her Laptop had a basic image enhancement function, so she ran it to sharpen up what she could of the fuzzy images on the photograph. The tallest woman was African-American or mixed race at least, with coloured skin and very dark hair. Another was shorter, slimmer-and appeared to be wearing some kind of jewellery around her neck that was shining in the sun, something partially obscured by a stretch of dark material lying partially atop it. Shorter hair, less muscular, but with a physique that was designed for violence in development and strength. The third was a woman with luxuriously long, dark hair, a remarkable physique-and a very particular way of standing that rang bells with Sydney. The last was a blonde woman, young and athletic, dark-dressed, closest to the camera-the image enhancement program cleared up the woman's face just as she looked at the image.

The shock would have put her on her knees if she hadn't already been sitting down. As it was, it was like a baseball bat to the stomach. She almost retched as her eyes took in something her mind didn't want to know, sharp pain stabbing into her mind behind her eyes as she almost felt something _shift_...

_Her_. It was her in that photograph, along with three other women the program was still cleaning up. Maybe two years younger, long blonde hair, a vicious snarl on her face, an unhealthy glint in her eyes. She was wearing black full Tactical gear, carrying dual pistols and a variety of other hardware, explosives, climbing gear...

...She felt the desert sun on her skin, searing heat from an early-morning sun scalding already against lightly tanned skin. Her hair sat still and straight in the utter stillness of desert warmth and silence, no movement at all about excepting the four of them. She felt sweat trickling down her skin, drawn out of every pore by a thick, heavy humidity that almost forced her down on hands and knees in a desperate effort to find the slightest trace of cool air and shade, or anything cold at all.

It was supposed to be cool and even airy down there, there was going to be plenty of shade and shadow, even Air Conditioning inside the buildings. If gaining that atmosphere and escaping this Hellish heat meant some killing, even a lot of killing, then she was all for it. After all, she couldn't help but think, a bitter smile twisting her lips even as the thought crossed her mind, wasn't that what, even who she, Julia Thorne, was..?

...Sydney blinked, swayed for a moment, then straightened-only to discover that she'd lost time with a glance at her watch, three minutes had passed. Worse, she had no recollection of her actions, yet she was logged into the CIA system through APO and had run a search through ARCHIVES. The result was the last thing she'd wanted to see. **SEARCHING: The Prometheus Descent...**

**MATCH FOUND**

**TPD 04/05**

DISPLAY Y/N? Her hands were almost trembling as she pressed "Yes". The result was even worse than she'd ! EYES ONLY TOP SECRET

**LEVEL 12 CLEARANCE REQUIRED**

DIRECTOR-ONLY ACCESS: PROCEED?

Without conscious thought, her hands went into motion and she typed something in. She wasn't even sure what, couldn't honestly have said for certain if it had been life or death, but it worked. The screen cleared, then flashed up _Access Granted_ before moving on to grant her Level 12 access.

She'd picked up plenty in the way of computer skills from Marshall over the years, added to which she'd been no distracted geek when she'd still been in University, let alone later, when she'd developed significant Hacking skills just to be able to do her job. She'd never get close to the super-genius Marshall in his area of expertise, she had no doubt of that fact, but she was more than capable. This, though, this? Breaking into the mainframe of Langley, gaining Director-level access? This was insane. How the Hell was she _doing_ this?

The Mission breakdown and objectives came up quickly and clearly in front of her. She read it through, but didn't need to read it twice. There was nothing of personal interest to her in it, bar one fact. The group of operatives involved, a group Sloane had mentioned but she had failed to ask him to elaborate on.

_The Styx Sisters_. The CIA had hired what had to be a group of professional Assassins to carry out a VERY off-the-books Assassination of a figure the Company couldn't even admit existed, privately or publicly. Sisters...could it _be_?

NO. She didn't want it to be, she couldn't _let_ it be. Even if that photograph was of...them, she didn't want to know more. Or at least, not yet. She knew she could trust Marshall, with her life as well as anything else, he'd have jumped off a bridge if she'd promised he'd survive without hesitation, so she could trust him with this. She'd call him and ask him to put a package together, quietly, with nobody the wiser, for her to go through personally and alone. She wanted all of the facts, possibilities and, most importantly, information concerning the Styx Sisters ready for her and absorbed before she made any decisions, particularly any rash one's she'd sometimes been known to be guilty of in the past.

She could feel something skittering around her mind at the edge of her awareness, a fact or something even more important she desperately needed or wanted to remember, but couldn't quite pin down yet. Something dark and deep-hidden, rotting away but still alive somehow, shoved away in the back of her mind to be forgotten and ignored coming back to haunt her from times she couldn't even remember.

Worse, it was becoming increasingly obvious there were HUGE gaps in her knowledge of what she seemed to have done back then as opposed to what she knew she'd done. She desperately needed to know just why she'd had the Mindwipe which had erased her memories done, more to the point she needed to know just what had been done, the rest would come from there. She'd been willing to accept she'd never really know more than what she'd learnt from Kendall's debriefing and the scattered bits and pieces she'd picked up since, Simon Walkers sort-of statements about her missing past included, but she could no longer live with that.

She could see more than enough to know what was coming, with increasing speed, towards her like a runaway juggernaut that would smash her flat if she couldn't dodge or deflect it in time. This was her past catching up with her, a past she couldn't remember she was fast running out of time to accept and make her peace with so she could deal with what came next. There had to be _something_ she could do?!

She stopped reading, not wanting to see any more because of an increasing feeling of disquiet that was churning her insides. She was missing something here, but what? She tried Links-and then she knew.

The Cairo "event", the extensive commentary, analysis and photographic as well as film visual aid breakdown... Her hands really were shaking after she read through it. The sums of money and final count of dead and wounded involved? The chaos and destruction caused? Just what actually happened, even given the fact that she was sure what she could access still wasn't the full truth since it was almost certain even the CIA didn't know everything? The involvement of the Styx Sisters and Simon Walkers team? If the CIA was possibly looking at her for this, only deflected by the fact her Amnesia concerning those two missing years was total? She could conceivably be charged with Treason...

Worse, a File simply titled **Paradox** where even the File itself was Encrypted to such a high level that merely attempting to crack the Encryption without the right Code Key would send a Flash Traffic Alert to Langley. The kind that made a Tactical Team kick down the front door, shoot first and ask questions later. She didn't need to even try, though, she could access the creation and closure dates of the File without running anything more than a basic check. The dates matched the times of her "Disappearance" and "Reappearance" almost exactly...

She logged out without reading any more. She couldn't read any more, she wanted to throw her Laptop out of the window...

Later, she didn't want to remember staggering to her feet, just making it to the sink before she threw up, her stomach and mind in turmoil. She didn't want to remember grabbing the bottle of wine she and Nadia kept for special occasions from out of the cupboard, still almost two-thirds full, almost breaking the top off as she wrenched the plastic cork out before putting it to her lips and drinking straight from the bottle. She drank so much so fast that it spilled out of her mouth, down over her neck and soaked her blouse, soaking through the material onto her underwear and lying against her skin. It was stupid, pathetic, a child's response in an attempt to block out an adults unpleasant reality, but at that moment in time she didn't care.

She'd drained half the bottle before she managed to consider what it meant, feeling utterly sick even as she did. Lauren Reed had asked her, just before Vaughn had killed the bitch, if she really believed that the CIA couldn't find her in those nine months she was gone before she escaped by herself and made contact. The man, Samael, had asked her if she'd ever made the effort to discover the truth about why her father had been imprisoned in 2003. She'd had her memory wiped for a _reason_...

She was meeting people she didn't remember who were risking life and limb to keep her safe and alive, professional killers all, each of them so skilful and ruthlessly proficient, not to mention brutally efficient, that every time one of them appeared the threat she'd been facing imply ceased to exist when they were done. She didn't need to be a genius, which she was, to put together the facts and realise that she'd been sleeping with the one she would so far judge the most dangerous, another _woman_.

What could have been so bad that she'd go _that_ far in an effort to...what? Shield herself from something or someone? Gain an ally? Separate Julia Anne Thorne from Sydney Catherine Bristow as totally as possible to enable her to do what she had to do and not go insane in the progress? She was tough, as resilient as anyone she knew when it came right down to it, but everyone, _everyone_, had limits they would eventually reach, lines they couldn't cross without changing _everything_. Just what had she _done_, really, while she'd been "away" for those two missing years...?

None of that mattered now, though, she had far more pressing concerns and one overriding one. She'd been literally handed the identity of a CIA mission on a plate by someone who was a Lawyer, "apparently", then she'd found a photograph of herself and three women she recognised, only one of which she knew, linking directly to it? Well, she'd always excelled at solving puzzles and seeing the truth of pictures, large or small or both, a skill which, added to what she knew now, told her one thing she could not stand, couldn't stomach.

This information as good as spelled out the fact that the CIA had not only known she was alive from the moment she'd disappeared, they'd been keeping a far closer eye on her than she'd imagined. They'd _let_ her rot in that place, only to use her when she'd finally dragged herself out to find out more about their new enemy, utterly uncaring about her health or welfare as a human being. Director Kendall of Project: Black Hole, the Director of the CIA Task Force she was attached to when she'd disappeared and "died", had told her since they'd gotten to know each other well in that time. Which meant he'd kept an eye on her as far as he was able, she knew without his stating it. She'd believed him, he wasn't a good enough liar to fool her face to face, but he was just one man.

It all fitted together so perfectly. The CIA left her under Covenant control for months, well aware that her Project: Christmas programming and training would prevent the reprogramming from ever working. They knew her skills, experience and natural intelligence would let her effect her own Extraction eventually, if she survived, so they waited for her to escape and make contact, then told her what they wanted to do through Kendall.

When she insisted on seeing Vaughn, it would have been the simplest thing in the world for Kendall to pick up a phone and call Langley, tell them what was required. Enter Lauren Reed at just the right time and place, with her father, Jack Bristow, Deep Cover and unavailable at the time. She'd have said yes to going back to the Covenant as Julia just to escape the heartbreak of Vaughn's betrayal, no matter how irrational the thoughts and feelings she was suffering. After a while, it would have become obvious just how important what she was doing really was to her and, as a good patriot and Agent, she'd have done her job without complaint, just as they asked for-or was it required?

How far would she have gone to get the job done in such an impossible situation, "dead", cut off totally from everyone, everything she knew, even denied her own identity? As far as she had to, that was just how she worked, something her father had taught her. Had Jack found out the truth and tried to put a stop to it? Sending him to jail to shut him up made far too much sense. Worse, he wouldn't have told her all of this in an attempt to protect her from such awful truths and possibilities, her father was many things but "coward" wasn't one of them. She knew him better than that, despite everything. If she was right...

She really needed to just get drunk, preferably dead drunk. She needed far more alcohol to do that, though. She lurched for her car keys, paused, then grabbed her purse and decided to just walk to the nearest store. This HAD to be wrong, a corruption of the mind created by a paranoid mindset caused by the insanity of the world she lived in, her whole profession, playing with her head once too often...

_Virginia, USA_

**Loss rules the mind.**

_**-Selene**_

Gibbs had explained the reasoning behind the visit to Conklin before they'd even set out, to Kate alone since she and he were on the same level of Clearance and his team weren't. She knew everything he did about Project: Treadstone, it turned out, but he knew of survivors from the old days, people linked to or connected with either the Project or people who had worked on it, which meant he knew far more about "Jason Bourne" than she did as an individual and Agent. Of course, that was only true in the sense that people who had known him _before_ he'd gone rogue had talked to Gibbs about him. Since then?

Well, she herself was one of the few who had any idea what the man was really like now. Talia, of course, was another matter altogether, nobody understood him like she did, or could-but Talia had informed her that was between the two of them alone, or she'd kill Selene, no questions asked. Just because they enjoyed each others company didn't mean either of them was incapable of slaughtering a friend, even a close friend. Of course she was, bar Julia, the closest friend and ally Talia had, but that just meant it would be quick. If someone she didn't like had stumbled across the truth of that relationship? Talia would have just begun by crippling and blinding them.

She agreed with the rest of the logic, though. Conklin had known the original Bourne, worked on both Projects, was the closest associate of the Psychologist who had created the systems used to Program, Reprogram and Control Treadstone Agents the second time around and had links with every intelligence Agency. He had so much experience, so much knowledge of the dark and dirty underside of the world of espionage he unquestionably thrived in, that he was the one person everyone knew could and would have an answer when all else had failed. He was _still_ on an unofficial CIA payroll and likely would be for the remainder of his life, or at least as long as his mind stayed sharp. If he couldn't, at the very least, set them on the right track to finding Bourne? Nobody could.

The fact that he liked playing mind games, could play the most skilled interrogators like Violin strings in the hands of a master and never, ever told the complete truth was something they would have to work around. A man she rather admired had once said "Three quarters of everything I have ever said was a lie". It described her perfectly was a good part of the reason why. The rest was because she _always_ knew fact from fiction. Conklin wouldn't tell them the direct truth, certainly, but with her and Gibbs double-teaming him, backed up by Katherine's skills, they'd get what they needed sooner rather than later. She was almost looking forwards to the challenge.

At the main entrance they were met, to her slight surprise, met by a bald old man who walked with a pronounced limp. He leant heavily on his left side where he was supported by a tall, thick, dark wooden cane and held his right arm to his chest in such a way it was quite obvious he had no use of the withered limb, musculature on the arm being almost non-existent. Dressed in pale clothes with blue eyes almost gleaming in a worn and wrinkled face, despite his advanced years there was still no mistaking the man's immediately penetrating intelligence. She didn't doubt it wasn't Conklin for a second, which meant that it could only be Morris Panov, the Psychologist.

She almost sighed, Conklin had to have sent such a physically feeble but intellectually brilliant man to get a read on his visitors before they all actually met, typical old intelligence hands trick before making first contact. His physical infirmity would have most people think little or nothing of him, but she knew better-and so did Gibbs, she didn't doubt. If they didn't impress this man they'd get nothing from Conklin, so it started here.

"Harmon Gibbs. I don't stand on titles which have no meaning unless I want something. I'm here to receive something I asked for, so Alex had better be ready" said Gibbs, arms folded across his chest, without preamble. Well, that was _one_ way to start a conversation, she supposed...

Panov didn't say anything, he simply looked at Katherine next. His eyes were like a diamond drill, cutting through every shadow and shredding every defence like nothing, Kate could sense as much as see that. To her credit, Katherine didn't flinch, even though she did look decidedly uncomfortable.

"Katherine Larien. I have questions and he has answers which can help me. As a Profiler, you understand?" said Katherine, almost standing at attention. It was a good answer, but Panov's gaze slid across her in a way which spoke of disinterest, came to Kate-and stopped. His eyes narrowed, his lips curled, could he sense the deception in her? No, she was sure of that, but he _could_ sense something of just how different she was from anyone else he'd ever meet.

"Katya Antonius Aquila, Kate Aquila to my friends. I'm sort of here on loan to knock heads together until the truth falls out. Somehow, I'm sure you understand what I mean" said Kate, meeting Panov's eyes steadily and directly. He just nodded once, slowly, before breathing in deeply and sighing aloud.

"Come on in, he's expecting you. Please don't get him started on anything which isn't critical to your investigation, though, when you've lived as long as he and I have there's so much to talk about you don't stop once you've started unless you have no choice. A word of advice? He can talk about the Project all day, so be specific unless you want to know every last detail" said Panov, stepping aside and gesturing them in. They filed in, he shut the door and led them to the main room on the ground floor at a slow but steady walk rather than a stride.

Panov had never been a heavily physical man, his body language told her that, but he didn't let his evident disability damage him any more than physically, which was impressive for a man her research had had full use of his body for his whole life until he'd suffered near-fatal injuries after being shot in the field in 1990. Evidently, he'd just made adjustments and moved on, which was an admirable response to such awful physical damage.

Conklin was sitting at a sofa in the main living room, a large room with three armchairs, two fat sofas, a wide screen TV. and the kind of remarkably sophisticated sound system she had no doubt would let him pick up any transmissions he wanted to in reality, regardless of how well cloaked or scrambled they were. The cream-coloured walls and mahogany-brown wooden ceiling dominated the room, but light flooded the whole area through broad and tall clear glass windows, swamping the luxuriously dark red carpet and finely carved oak table that was surrounded by all of the chairs.

Conklin was facing the windows directly, the unconscious habit of any intelligence Agent who'd been on enough Field Ops to know that, the vast majority of the time, any opponent would rather shoot you in the back. They all sat down in the surrounding chairs, Conklin not looking directly at even one of them, including Gibbs, the brown eyes that concealed so much of the Saints truly remarkable mind and intelligence seemingly studying the carvings in the table. It was only when they all started to feel half-annoyed half-puzzled, as though he could so accurately sense the mood after a few minutes, that he looked up at them and spoke.

She got the oddest feeling even as he did so, though, feeling her hackles rise as though she'd sensed, seen or smelt something and not realised what it was, only the fact that it was dangerous, dangerous enough to worry _her_. The thought by itself was disturbing, she didn't shake facing torture, mutilation or even death, but she was already on edge here and the old man seemed to be the reason... _Was_ he the reason, or were her instincts trying to warn her about something she hadn't consciously realised or understood yet? That had happened before...

"Alex, you know why were here, even if you don't know everyone here, so lets cut the Spec Ops bull for a change and cut to the chase. Were looking for Jason Bourne, the new one, I think you either know where he is or can make a damn good guess. Even if you don't know, you can point us in the right direction to find out where he's going next and allow us reach it first. If there's anything useful you have to say, now is the time" said Gibbs, going straight at the old man as directly as she'd come to expect from him, even given their brief time together. Gibbs was the kind of man who kept at a problem until he either solved it or got killed by it, he didn't know the meaning of the words "half measure". He always took the most direct approach possible, too, which evidently got results.

She wondered just how well he knew Conklin, though, to think that his verbal assault would work on a man who'd put decades into dealing with professional liars, killers and much worse. Maybe this was just how he started everything? She almost ignored a sudden thump from the main window-almost, but not quite, since she couldn't see any impact trace beyond an oddly shaped smear. It was as though something had been thrown against the window, rather than the mark being the result of a bird impact?

"Harmon, I still personally thank every Director of the CIA since you joined up with the Marines in 1970 for not trying to recruit you, did you know that? You do not use a blunt instrument to deal with a situation like Bourne, particularly when he's _all_ sharp edges and jagged parts. Instead, you use it to squash a problem that you need dealt with regardless of consequences. How many times have I told you that, again?" replied Conklin, a smile on his wrinkled face.

"Too many, again, Alex. Do you still answer questions or do I need to send for thumbscrews, again?" replied Gibbs. She could tell that he was trying to make a joke of it, but she could also see that it bothered him more than a little. Old argument Gibbs knew he wasn't going to win in the end, she had no doubt-that noise again?

"Oh, I always have answers, Harm, sometimes to even more than you've asked. For example, would you like to know where Bourne's going next?" asked Conklin, an answer which made Gibbs sit up straight abruptly as Katherine's eyes widened. Kate didn't react on the outside, she'd heard plays like this too many times. Of course, it was Conklin this time, so it was quite possible there was more to it. After all, he wouldn't want any MIA former Treadstone Agent running around free slaughtering anyone and everyone he chose to, not after being involved in the reactivation of the Project himself, along with Panov. That noise _again_? Twice? That settled it, there was something badly wrong here...

"Go on" said Gibbs, quietly. She understood his hesitation, this could hand them Bourne if they played their cards right and Conklin knew what he was talking about-which he almost certainly did.

Conklin would have, too, but he was prevented from doing so by three things. Three very final things.

The first was a nearly silent "thup" of impact as something cracked right through the glass and hit Conklin in the throat. Conklin half-rose, arms flailing, frantically trying to speak and failing in the seconds before blood began to pour from his mouth and throat over desperately grasping hands. He stayed upright somehow, half-risen, but was as good as dead on his feet.

The second was a dull but powerful explosion centred on the main window, so focused Kate suspected it had been a targeted device. The glass instantly shattered, cracking in all directions like a Spiders Web before sheer kinetic force threw it into the room where it rained down on the five people there like Hail straight from Hell.

Panov, the oldest there apart from Conklin, was too slow raising his hands and arms to shield his face. A shard slashed open his left cheek, a larger piece pierced his upper chest under the left armpit while a spinning sliver cut into an eye socket-she couldn't tell which one-causing a sudden eruption of blood. His sudden howls of pain set every nerve jangling even as she started to move, even as shards and slivers fell everywhere, cutting hands and arms, getting caught in hair and clothes.

The third was the final shock, most likely to be the one to kill them all. Sharp ears caught the sound, the distinctive "pop-thump" that said it all to anyone who'd been under fire in a modern battle field situation, which she had oddly enough. RPG, Rocket Propelled Grenade, someone was throwing high explosives at them. She heard the second thump that signified the grenade landing, inside the room...

Time abruptly caught up with them even as she lunged to her feet, throwing herself at Conklin and taking him from his feet with a full-body tackle even as she tried to stop or slow the flood of blood coming from his throat with her bare hands until she could get something better. Any other circumstances she'd have been out of the room and down the passageway by now, but Conklin couldn't die just yet.

Katherine was still too stunned to move, looking around blankly and clearly trying to think what to do. Gibbs, though, old soldier that he was, didn't even hesitate.

"GRENADE! COVER! EVERYBODY DOWN!" bellowed Gibbs, crash-tackling the screaming Panov to the floor even as Katherine started to move at last-the grenade went off.

It blew with a white-hot flare of incendiary heat that hit the room like a small Nuke going off and set fire to everything within twenty foot, from clothes and skin to floor, walls and ceiling, even brick and stone. Lying down as flat as possible on the edge of the danger zone made them far from safe given the nature of the Incendiary, but they had nowhere else to go and no way to put the fire out once it caught. She felt the skin of her right arm sear right through her clothes, knew her hair was smoking...

"MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!" bellowed Gibbs abruptly, the danger of the explosion having passed as quickly as it had come. She sat up fast, tore off the sleeve of her jacket and used it as an improvised bandage on Conklin's throat to slow the bleeding down. He was visibly going into Shock even as she did it, though, face pale, trembling from head to foot, eyes wild and bloodshot-she slapped him, hard, to get his attention focused on her and away from the shock and pain of his injury, instantly getting his attention.

She jumped to her feet and drew both handguns fast, clicking off both safeties even as she ran for the door. A glance around showed an apparently unconscious Katherine lying beneath the upturned chair she'd been sitting in, exposed right hand cooked black by the blast. She didn't have time for this-!

A blast of automatic rifle fire shattered the doors centre, immediately after which three men stepped into the room in full black tactical gear carrying enough weaponry to take on a Special Forces unit. She was closest but fired first, a snapped shot slashing through the throat of the nearest as blood sprayed from a severed artery. He went down convulsing, but the second got a three-round burst off, a single round of which clipped her left side as she dived out of the way, biting into her flesh but missing bones and organs. Gibbs shot him in the head with a perfect double-tap, the bullets smashing through the visor protecting his face to destroy his brain. The last man opened fire fast and wide on full auto, spraying the room, but Kate was on the floor when he started shooting and rolled to her feet inside his guard, pulling the trigger with her gun point-blank under the attackers chin. Only his helmet stopped the top of his head from coming off.

She heard a grunt and turned, only to discover Gibbs clutching a bloody shoulder. He shook his head, not serious, but it was going to slow him down. Wonderful, four wounded, one Critically, within a minutes combat. Only she was really left standing and able, just what she'd always wanted.

"_...Alpha Team, report. Confirm executions and Extraction, over..._"

She blinked, then realised that she'd heard a radio transmission from a transmitter on one of the dead soldiers. Useful? If she could work out some way to turn it her advantage, maybe. She pulled the headset off of one of them and put it on herself. Every little helped.

"Katherine! KATHERINE!" snapped Gibbs, shoving the unconscious woman none too gently with his foot as he tried to stay out of sight of the main window. It was odd that the Sniper hadn't taken a second shot, in fact?

Katherine stirred slowly, whimpering in pain even as Gibbs hand clamped down, literally, on Panov's screams. The old man was in such pain he couldn't stop screaming. Poor bastard, Kate couldn't help but think...

Cautiously, she stepped out into the hallway, checking left and right quick and clean. Nobody, nothing. Up? Down? No sound to judge by, no signs of movement. But, there was no way any professional company of Mercs, which she was sure this was, would send only one team in to make sure of target elimination. They were here-

A man stepped into sight on the banisters carrying a handgun and fired at the same time she did. The man was a much better shot, the bullet hit her in the chest over the breastbone and she felt the bone crack-or snap, there was no way to be certain. But if it had broken, just movement could kill her if the jagged edge of bone stabbed her in the heart or lungs. Her shot was, of course, flawless, hitting him precisely in the join between visor and face and ripping through the sinuses on into his brain. His shot slammed her backwards into the wall, hers threw him over the far banister, after which he landed with a terrible crack twenty feet below. That _hurt_, in more than ways than one...

She straightened up, forcing back the pain with a will that was so used to overriding physical injury and its effects she didn't consciously register it any more, advanced again, heading for the stairs. Conklin's house was three storeys tall and had so many rooms she didn't want to guess at a number, they just had to get _out_ of here. Worse, they couldn't use their car, the Mercs would have it tagged by Snipers at best, so they had to find Conklin's transport, if there was anything available in this huge place without going outside. Conklin couldn't tell them anything now, though, she just

hoped that Panov could and would once he snapped out of it.

"..._Alpha team, REPORT!_..."

Well, there went another possible advantage. Whoever was shooting at them had realised that they'd lost their advance team. Her reaction in a similar situation would have been to blanket the target area in heavy fire before sending in troops front and back to eliminate survivors and annihilate any traces of survival. Given what they were up against? Conklin was probably already dead, they all were, but surrender was not in her vocabulary, let alone her nature.

Gibbs staggered out of the ruined room doors, good arm supporting the wounded Conklin, blood streaming down his injured side. The wound in his shoulder wasn't serious by itself, but the blood loss would be if he kept bleeding like that. Katherine was right behind him, gun in her good hand, Panov and she almost supporting each other, the wounded old man biting down hard on a thick piece of wood he'd found somewhere, tears streaming down his face from obvious extreme agony. At his age, given his physical infirmity? He could have a Heart Attack and drop dead on them at any moment.

Katherine was no better off, her cooked hand was clearly useless and she looked dazed, almost stunned. If it hadn't been for Panov's presence Kate suspected she'd have fallen over. She was in Shock at best, too, crippled with her ruined hand. This was just getting better and better. Gibbs was the only one left on his feet who might even possibly be able to watch her back, assuming he didn't pass out from loss of blood first...

"You're hit" Gibbs said, unnecessarily, given the fact she was feeling a cold shock of sharp pain every time she breathed, let alone moved. Blood was running steadily from the wound, but while deep it wasn't massive and she knew she had hours before it knocked her out.

"In the chest, yes. Panov, we have to get out of here right now, but we can't go outside to do it. Men like Conklin in places like this always have a multi-car garage, which I really do hope is accessible from the inside. I need you to lead us there, right now, you understand? Just nod" said Kate, to a weak nod from Panov. He'd covered the wounded eye, his right, with one hand, but given the amount of gore and blood she could see Kate was quite sure that he was going to loose the eye if he hadn't already. Tough, really, if he'd survived loosing the use of half of his limbs he could survive this. Regardless, it was Conklin she was interested in, who mattered here.

Panov pointed down a corridor, then made a series of quick gestures to indicate left and right turns at specific points. She watched closely to make sure she had it right, then glanced at Gibbs.

"I'll take point and clear the way, double back to help out and lift as necessary. You watch our backs, follow the same route I do and I'll mark it a way you won't miss. Your rearguard, keep him safe. Agreed?" she asked, looking him the eyes to make sure he knew she was really serious about her plan.

Gibbs answering smile was totally devoid of humour and warmth. "I'm a Vietnam vet, I know all about not leaving a man behind. We'll be on your six, just don't miss" he replied, his tone grim, face and eyes hard. He'd automatically slipped into old military jargon in the middle of a firefight, she noted. A very old soldier. She just nodded, then moved off.

Glass crashed behind them as a second team broke into the room they'd just left. Gibbs pulled out what looked like a Flashbang he had to have lifted from one of the dead Mercs, primed it and threw it into the room, just as a gunshot cracked but hit nothing from the inside. It went off with a flash of light brilliant enough to burn retinas in the early morning sunshine, leading to shrieks of pain from inside as the Mercs were caught off-guard. "GO!" snapped Gibbs, raising his gun and almost dragging the near-comatose Conklin along fast as he headed the way indicated, leaving a thin trail of red blood behind him-his and Conklin's. Again, it couldn't be helped.

She went, moving off at a fast stride, the best speed she could easily manage, both 9MM pistols held high, armour-piercing rounds ready to go. After all, a girl could never be too careful.

"..._Attention all units, Bravo team reports Alpha team DOWN, repeat DOWN. Possible communication compromise, all units reset to alternate frequency. Immediate_..." came the hissing radio voice over her headphones again, before the transmission obviously shifted to a different channel as the contact dissolved into blank static. She tried moving from channel to channel, flicking through searching for anything, a hint, a whisper. What she got wasn't what she'd expected.

A creak of a floorboard as she walked down a dark pinewood corridor with a thick carpet alerted her, momentarily distracting her from the radio. Her weapons came up, ready, she stepped up to the door the sound had come from behind without a sound or a trace of movement-a snapped kick almost tore the door the door right off of its hinges as she lunged forwards and leapt inside. The would-be ambusher fired a shotgun into the roof he was so startled, his trap reversed, allowing her to shoot him twice in the neck before he could even begin to actually react. At point-blank range she almost decapitated him, an explosion of blood coating the wall behind him even as he staggered under the bullets impacts and collapsed bonelessly to the floor.

Checking him, deciding against the heavy body armour for mobility's sake, she lifted a 45. Glock with two spare clips and one loaded she slotted into the belt at her back, a HALO combat knife she strapped to her left forearm-she was ambidextrous, she just preferred the left-and the shotgun, fully loaded bar one shell with ten shells as reloads she slipped into a pocket. She didn't like loud and noisy weapons as a rule, not least because they always drew the wrong kind of attention and were almost impossible to disguise, but also because she regarded them as suspect in shape given the phallic design. War was men's game, they designed their tools to show that. Blades were her preferred means of operation. The Merc had a Flashbang, too, which she took as well.

A sudden belch of sound and impact shifted the entire house, a screeching crack of something no smaller than a medium-range Howitzer shell striking the house directly if she was any judge. Bits and pieces of the ceiling fell on her and she smelt smoke, suggesting that the house was on fire. Abruptly, her attention was wrenched back to the radio as something barked forth from it in a new voice.

"..._Target Conklin and Panov ONLY, full automag shoot to kill. Associates and companions are to be dealt with as necessary to achieve objective. Purge Squad formation and disciplines, free-fire on Medusa targets_..." said a new voice, what sounded like woman's although it was evidently electronically muffled, which made it difficult to tell. Thankfully, she had very good ears.

This was crazy, a second force was hitting Conklin's estate immediately after the first force assault, using the opportunity to ambush the first force and wipe it out? With _all_ of them after Conklin, Panov and anyone with them in that order?!

Gunfire sounded not far behind her, what had to be Gibbs and his group defending themselves against attackers. She wanted to double back, but if she didn't clear the way first they could end up being ambushed from both directions. Tactical rule of thumb number one was if your enemy has an elevated position on you and superior firepower, you are dead. They were outnumbered, outgunned and outflanked with enemies on all sides trapped in an indefensible structure their attackers were already inside, a more hopeless tactical situation was hard to easily conceive of. Their only remaining advantage was that they were not currently under attack, which left them a slim possibility of evasion and escape. She intended to take full advantage of it.

She moved forwards quickly and smoothly, watching all the angles, edging around every corner, almost drifting in silence around the house and along its corridors. At one point she heard running footsteps on the next floor, but they couldn't possibly hear her so she filed them away and kept moving. Gunfire occasionally cracked, some not far away, but it wasn't on her path so she put it to the edge of her consciousness and kept moving. The increasing pain from her chest she could deal with, even with the evidently cracked bones, pain was an intimate old friend of hers. What she needed to worry about were other human beings or Booby Traps, so she focused herself completely on surveying her surroundings to ensure that she wasn't caught off-guard.

Surprisingly enough, she wasn't, not until she ran into trouble just outside the main garage. Right outside the entrance two men in dark body armour armed with SA-80's stood guard, the door shut tight. The corridor which led to them was ten feet long, five wide and had three doors leading, presumerably, to three different rooms she had to consider. The whole set-up had "Ambush" written all over it, but she didn't have a choice, she didn't have time to find another way around.

Slinging her shotgun across her back, she drew both of her pistols-and burst out from around the corner of the corridor, snapping off double shots fast and low. Both men screamed and collapsed even as they tried to level their weapons, both knees ruined, one managing to fire a burst into a wall before he collapsed with a wail. Without stopping, she shoulder charged the nearest door and tore the door completely clear of the frame, landing atop it-and atop a startled woman Merc on the other side whose right leg snapped with an awful crack as Kate's full weight slammed down on it, hard. She yelped, for the one second she lived before Kate drove her nose up into her brain with a perfectly angled gun butt strike.

Doors opened behind her even as she rolled off the door and to her feet, spinning around fast. The first man through the door got six armour piercing rounds in the chest fast, just in case, a fulisade of impacts which catapulted him backwards.

Bizarrely, she couldn't help recalling her old tutors advice about ignoring what most people would tell you to do in a gunfight if you wanted to live. Head shot, quick and clean and dead, right? Wrong. Heads are relatively small parts of the body, always moving and only have weak points around the eyes and mouth, the skull might repel or deflect small calibre weapons. The chest, though, is a massive target packed full of vital organs shielded only by ribs and sternum, between which there are large amounts of space to shoot. Nobody walks around with a bullet in the Kidney, for example, whereas being half blind means the target can still see to shoot you with the other eye if you miss the brain. How many times had that advice saved her life? Too many, she'd never know in reality.

The last man came close to the door but not within her line of sight, clearly intending to throw a grenade in. She holstered her left-side pistol and drew her HALO knife, then stepped outside as though she was taking the air. The man was too shocked to move as she suddenly appeared, for the breath of time before she slashed out in a spinning cut that left her standing at the end of the corridor, opening his throat from chin to spine in a deep whip slash of blood that coated the hall, leaving him dead on his feet before he even registered the attack. Her right-hand pistol spoke twice, the wounded men's bodies jerking as both took point-blank shots in the head to make sure before she cleaned her HALO knife on their clothes, sheathed it and reached out to open the door, carefully standing to one side just in case-

The crack of gunfire from the other side of the door saved her life, but even she wasn't that quick. She dived backwards and to her right, but of the two shots which exploded through the door and wall one hit her in the left shoulder, somehow missing the bone, while the other hit her high in the left chest, snapping a rib and plunging deep. Her planned graceful landing and roll turned to a painful crash-landing as she was hit by a wave of agony from her new injuries which tried to stop her heart, waves of bloody red pain flooding into her mind and trying to swamp her consciousness.

_**...Selene...**_

She could feel blood, her own blood, pooling underneath her from all of her wounds. It felt like acid had been poured down her throat, she could taste blood and pain, blood was trickling out of her mouth...

_...Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn..._

The door was opening behind her, she could just make out a woman's voice issuing sharp orders. She couldn't _**move**_-!

_Assassin of the Old Ones. The Chaos Soldier._

A bullet was chambered behind her. This was _it..._

Something deep inside her mind cut pain out of the information chain and forced her battered body to respond to the commands of her mind, sheer force of will overriding the almost crippling injuries she'd suffered as feeling and strength rushed back into her, every one of her nerves on fire, screaming in agony. She felt like she was fighting through treacle for a moment-

She rolled aside just as the man fired, rolling onto her back as the bullet slashed into the carpet and ground where her head had been. She snapshot her return fire and caught him in the join between chest and neck, snapping his collarbone and severing an artery. He screamed, dropped his gun and grabbed at his neck, trying insanely to stop the spurting blood with his bare hands. Shouting erupted behind him as others tried to push past, but the agonised man wasn't moving, howling like a wounded animal-until someone shot him through the heart from behind, catapulting him from his feet.

Selene sat up and simply started shooting, aiming for throats, faces and hearts. Four more men and the woman officer were inside the garage, she killed the first two men and winged the officer in the left arm before they fell back out of sight, moving to concealed positions behind the cars and other vehicles. Unsteadily she stood up and followed, her blouse drenched in her own blood, her left arm barely functional, the three bullets in her burning in the wounds. She felt a sheen of sweat coat her body as she went from hot to cold and back again in seconds, her seriously injured body trying to cope with the increasingly extreme physical demands she was asking of it. Even she was hitting her physical limits, fast, this couldn't go on much longer.

"_Tekeli-li_!" she shouted, then she ran into the garage doubled over before diving full length on the floor, so much momentum behind her she slid for several metres in a controlled skid, leaving a long smear of blood. Shots ran out in all directions but none came anywhere near her.

She shot to her feet like a jack-in-the-box and killed a Merc with a single clean head shot before the last standing soldier, bar the officer, came at her from the right with his SA-80 held like a baseball bat. He slashed at her legs, presumerably thinking that, like 90% of people so seriously injured, she wouldn't be able to react fast enough to avoid the attack with the pain and injury slowing her down. She proved him wrong with a kick which took the rifle out of his hands, breaking several fingers in the process, before she grabbed him by both wrists and delivered a brutal head butt that fractured his helmet faceplate and almost cracked her skull. To finish, she grabbed the stunned man in a headlock with both arms and twisted sharply with vicious strength. His neck snapped audibly and he flopped to the floor, dead, with a boneless thump.

The officer came out of nowhere and with a pistol held in her good arms hand-but Selene met her with the Glock 45. face to face. Selene knew precisely two people faster than her on the trigger, she also knew what it took to pull the trigger under these circumstances, a willingness to be dead if you didn't succeed. Life and death meant nothing to her, she wondered whether the officer realised that...

The officer shifted her grip on her weapon so she was holding the butt with only two fingers abruptly, then she dropped it to the floor like it was nothing. Intrigued, Selene watched as the woman reached up and slowly, carefully, removed her helmet. She was young, thirty or just over, with long curly brown hair tied up about her head to let her use the helmet, doe-soft light brown eyes, a smoothly beautiful face, slim but compact, almost thin body...

Selene's eyes widened. It _couldn't_ be...?

"Hello, Selene. It's been a long time" said the woman, her accent almost impossible to place-but Selene had good ears. There was a strong trace of America in there if you knew what to listen for. Texas, even?

Selene was almost rooted to the spot by something close to shock. Of everything she hadn't expected...

"_Kelly_?!"

"No need to shout, its me, I'm right here. We really have to stop meeting like this though, you know?" replied Kelly, a smile on her face. Selene's aim didn't waver for a moment, she knew exactly what the younger woman was capable of given the chance.

"Kelly bloody Peyton, as I live and breathe... _Idiot_ woman, what the Hell do you think your doing taking arms against _me_? I've slaughtered enough people over the years making a point to people who come after me that I would have though my star pupil, of everyone, would know better. Do you actually think that I won't kill you just because I enjoy your company? I should cripple and blind you just for being in the area" said Selene, resisting the urge to shake her head before she continued.

"_Et tu, Kelly_? I used to think the people I trained generally came with some intelligence. Prove me wrong now and I _will_ hurt you. _Bad_" she snapped out, a snarl on her face.

"Your not wrong, I am smart, Selene. Here's what you don't know: it was me who shot you through the door, I can see I hit you both times. The bullets were coated in Potassium Cyanide, by now it's in your bloodstream and on its way to your heart at the very least. Your already dead, you just didn't know it" replied Kelly, the smile on her face not wavering for a moment.

Selene stared at her. Then, despite the hideous nature of the threat she was facing, despite all of her awful injuries, the blood rimming her mouth and lips as a trace hung from her mouth like a rope of crimson drool, she actually threw her head back and laughed. Kelly's smile fell off of her face in a way which suggested she'd just discovered she'd already dug her own grave, exactly where she was standing.

"Imaginative, nice touch, but not good enough. People die from poisons, but nothing short of or other than violence will take _me_ from this world. You never did understand just what I am. Take more than you to kill the beast, Kelly. See you in the funny pages" replied Selene, still chuckling.

She snapped a sudden savage right cross to Kelly's jaw with her pistol still in hand, without warning, cracking the other woman's jaw and staggering her badly, before following through with a savage clubbing strike to the back of the head which dropped the woman to the floor in an unmoving heap. She wasn't honestly worried if she'd crippled or even killed Kelly in reality. If the woman was strong, she'd survive and live to fight another day intact. If not? Oh well...

She scanned the garage quickly, noting that Conklin's choice of vehicle focused on the solid and reliable rather than the flashy and fast. Every vehicle in there, from small car to small truck, was the kind of vehicle one could drive through a Swamp and it would still keep going until the gas ran out. Some of them even looked like armoured car variations on regular designs, to her skilled eyes, but she wanted something special for this... Oh, yes. That would do very nicely indeed.

Less than a minute later Gibbs and his charges caught up, even as she opened the doors and checked the vehicle she'd chosen for Booby Traps and sabotage. There was none, sloppy work on Kelly's part, but she likely hadn't had time.

"_...Kings Knight, reply. Repeat, Kings Knight, respond with location and status report..._"

More radio chatter came into her ears through her stolen headphones and communication rig. The attackers had already noticed the loss of contact with Kelly, that really was not good.

"Kate? Are you-Jesus Christ..." said Gibbs even as she turned to meet him and he got a good look at her. She looked like she'd gone twelve rounds with a machine gun being fired at her while being lashed with a flail, she had no doubt. She could feel her own blood drenching her clothes, making her hands slippery, sense an increasing shortness of breath-punctured lung, almost certainly-and knew that her constant swallowing of the blood that was building up in her mouth, not always completely successfully, was making her teeth turn a deep, dark red, but she wasn't going to die of any of that just yet. Blood loss notwithstanding, even with the poison in her system she likely had hours to go before her injuries were honestly life threatening, the internal bleeding just made things more complicated. She could manage.

"Kate, how the Hell are you even still _alive_?" asked Katherine, coming in behind Gibbs and still supporting the wounded Panov. Evidently she'd recovered from the shock of the earlier attack and her injuries, which was finally an advantage on their side. Of course, she still had no use of her ruined hand, but that couldn't be helped.

"Deaths boring, why would I want to experience that when there's so much of life left to explore? Anyway, its just pain, an old friend of mine who reminds me I'm alive every now and then. Are you going to get in? We really should go before reinforcements get in here" replied Selene.

"Your completely crazy, but your now officially the hardest bitch I've ever met. Lead on" said Katherine, shaking her head. Gibbs appeared to appalled at her injuries to say anything, so she ignored him and got into the drivers seat.

The vehicle she'd chosen was a Humvee, Military grade and design, with bullet proof windows, an armoured chassis and special kind of jelly-filled tires which couldn't be blown or flattened by anything, the only way to stop a vehicle with them was to blow the wheels clean off of it. Dark grey in colour, it had a sealed turret hatch which looked as though it was designed for a rotating machine gun mount atop it, a mount which had been removed.

Humvee's were all-terrain vehicles, the kind that got shot full of holes, set on fire and torn apart yet kept going because that was what they were designed to do, to get the passengers where they were going no matter what. She wondered how Conklin had got hold of one, but didn't care right now. What mattered was that she now had the escape vehicle of her dreams, unless the old man was hiding a tank somewhere. The Humvee also had a full tank of gas, she was very glad to discover. Hopefully, it had been well maintained as well.

The others all got in, Gibbs manhandling the unconscious Conklin into the backseat across Panov and Katherine, who both did their best to support the old man and keep the primitive bandage on his neck no matter what. He was pale as a white sheet and starting to shake uncontrollably, signs of extreme blood loss and deep shock. Even young, once you were that bad you didn't have long. At Conklin's age? He probably had minutes if they were lucky.

Gibbs joined her in the front, riding shotgun, but she got a good look at him and didn't like what she saw. He was pale and sweaty himself, his hands were still steady but he was starting to look damp and clammy, his eyes bloodshot. He'd lost too much blood, tough as he was at his age, but she couldn't loose him just yet. There was nobody else left who could actually help her out with this.

Of course, that didn't take away from the fact she was definitely not feeling superb herself. The bleeding she could handle, the pain she could ignore, but she was starting to feel cramps and pains in her chest which had nothing to do with her injuries, on top of which she needed a drink so badly that she was starting to feel dehydrated. Functioning at these levels with her injuries was dragging down her physical and mental resources _fast_, resources she had no easy way to replenish.

The poison was starting to bite, even though she hadn't been exaggerating when she told Kelly that it wouldn't kill her for a fact. She had her ways of dealing with that kind of assault, but that didn't mean it wouldn't, at the very least, severely inconvenience her before she was able to deal with it.

"Stay with me, Harmon, because if you pass out on me now you'll wake up dead. That, I promise you" said Selene, staring hard at him. Gibbs stared straight back at her without flinching, his expression as much as his eyes making it clear that his resolve was as malleable as a block of concrete was for a light breeze.

"I promise _you_ this: I've never backed out or down from a fight in my life and there's no way in Hell I'm starting now. Get us out of here and I'll be with you all the way" replied Gibbs, his voice all Military discipline and rock-solid self control that never let him quit before the mission was complete, the job done. She smiled, that was the right answer.

"Buckle up, stay down, lock the doors and shut the windows tight. This is going to hurt" said Selene, before starting the Humvee's engine, which turned over with a deep, throaty roar of contained power even as all of the doors were slammed shut and locked, every window shut and checked. There were three small vehicles between them and the garage doors, wood and steel combined effort doors designed to be opened electronically. Doing that would be like waving a flag saying "Shoot me!" to anyone waiting for them outside, so she'd gone with Plan B. The Humvee was a big, solid moving object which could build up plenty of momentum in a short time, so the plan was simple. She was going to open the door in a way the designers had never planned for.

"Wagons roll!" she shouted, even as she aimed the Humvee directly at the garage doors and stamped on the accelerator so hard the wheels span, shrieking on the concrete surface before the rubber bit and propelled it forwards as though it had been fired from a launch pad atop a Space Shuttle launch.

Gibbs stared at her in bewilderment as they moved, but she just shrugged and winked. "Always wanted to say that in America" she said, with a wide, mad grin as they raced towards the door as though they were trying to outrun all of the hordes of Hell. They hit the door maybe five seconds later.

The impact shook every bone in her body and made the vehicle almost come to a dead stop with a shriek of bending and shredding steel, snapping wood spinning away, a shard of steel being torn clear with such force that it cracked the windscreen on impact before skittering away in a shower of sparks as it glanced off of the armoured side. It didn't change the fact that she could abruptly see daylight, that she kept her foot all the way down on the accelerator even as an awful screech sounded from somewhere-then they were outside, tires screaming as they shot up the exit and entrance ramp at the rear of the building, Selene fighting the wheel all the way as the drag from the shattered garage door and the bumpy ride tried to finish the escape before it had even started.

Bright early morning sun shone overhead, slight white clouds drifting across a clear blue sky casting shadows down on green grass and dark brown trees. That was the good news.

The bad news was, as they came out onto the main road leading around Conklin's estate, pyres of smoke and even flames were rising from every building, including the one they'd just left. Small craters were everywhere, in a pattern which suggested either artillery fire or the use of multiple high explosives. Buildings were pockmarked with bullet damage everywhere she looked, windows were shattered by explosives or cracked in a dozen places by bullet impacts everywhere. Automatic weapons fire belched and roared across the estate as small teams of three or four men fought each other, leapfrogging from cover to cover, using guns, grenades and even their bare hands in battles to the death near anything solid enough to hide a human being. A big gun mounted on the back of a large trailer truck sat at the open entrance gates, blocking them off completely. An actual Howitzer, one team had actually brought artillery... Well, they weren't going out that way.

The fighting between rival groups almost ended abruptly as the Humvee roared into sight, then everyone who could draw a direct line of fire turned and opened fire on them. Selene snapped the wheel left, veering sharply off of the road towards the perimeter fence, skidded right in a fast swerve around a burning storehouse even as sparks flew from bullet impacts which crashed against the Humvee's armour like hot metal hailstones, fought to compensate as the grass and soil tried to deny her traction, then gunned the engine and braced herself as they headed straight for the eight-foot wire mesh fence, which she really hoped wasn't still electrified. With a resounding crack, followed by the kind of wet snapping echo she normally associated with multiple broken bones, they tore right through the fence and raced on into the nearby forest.

She didn't even consider trying to slow down as she span the wheel like a lunatic, spinning the Humvee around trees and stumps like a professional Stunt driver in a life or death race. She had no doubt at all that the remains of the two teams were running for their vehicles right at that moment, whether or not they were still trying to kill each other on the way, the only reason she and the others had even made it out of the garage at all.

With Conklin's estate turned into a War Zone she'd have put money on everyone who lived within five miles having called the Police to report either a Terrorist attack or possible invasion, which meant police SWAT teams were already on their way at the very least. Once the reports got high enough up the information chain that the fact Conklin was involved got the right peoples attention she wouldn't have been too surprised to see everyone from the National Guard on down showing up guns blazing asking questions later, but they weren't here _now_ so she'd just have to manage. Hopefully the Mercs didn't have a helicopter, anything else she could manage but that could kill them. After all, you couldn't loose a helicopter from the ground in a vehicle as big as a Humvee...

"Hey! HEY! Where the Hell are we GOING?!" shouted Gibbs suddenly, dragging her attention back to him briefly.

"No IDEA! Whip out a map and find me a road, then we'll know!" she snapped back, preoccupied at the very least. Her own blood was making her hands grip on the wheel so slick that her hands were going numb she was gripping it so tightly to compensate, her clothes and seat were getting increasingly drenched and she was suffering black spots in her vision she had to keep blinking away, on top of which she was suffering increasing bouts of sharp pains which she knew had nothing to do with her injuries. She was breathing blood, while broken and cracked bones had set her entire chest on fire on the inside, made worse by internal bleeding.

She hadn't been this badly torn up since she'd been captured and tortured in China in 99', when their utter failure to make her talk no matter what drugs or coercion had been used had driven her torturers to _extreme_ methods. She _still_ hadn't talked after they were done, so they'd left her for dead in a concrete cell for three days in a pool of blood, terrible injuries open to infection, starving and delirious from dehydration and her injuries. She hadn't died then, she wasn't going to die now.

"Got it! Woodland road a mile ahead and left now, turn right onto it and we hit a main road that takes us to town" shouted Gibbs, straining to be heard over the roar of the Humvee's engine as he wrenched open a map he'd found in a lockbox by his side.

"Groovy!" shouted back Selene, slashing the wheel left before straightening up and gunning the engine again. The sudden, abrupt manoeuvre saved their lives.

A missile shot past on their right and slammed into the soil, a second before it burst into a red-white ball of flame that vaporised at least a six foot area of greenery and set fire to everything around it. Selene swore a blue streak. Hellfire missile, designed specifically to take out armoured vehicles just like theirs, had to be. Worse, it had to be mounted on a helicopter to have come at them like that given their lead, so why hadn't she heard it?

_Stealth_ chopper? Just who the Hell was actually after them, or rather Conklin? You didn't send assets like that after _anyone_ willy-nilly.

"Gibbs! DRIVE!" she barked, grabbing his good arm and wrenching him near her as they hit a temporary clear area. A professional, he was used to taking Orders and grabbed the wheel without question, allowing her to slide under him as he rolled over her, although she had to bite down on her lip hard to avoid an involuntary yelp of pain. Even just moving was beginning to do much worse than simply "hurt".

"What the Hell are you DOING?!" shouted Gibbs, as she reached up and slammed the hatch above their heads as hard as she could with both hands. It hadn't been welded, thankfully, just locked shut, so she felt a slight give when she hit it. She hit it again, twice, harder each time-and it sprang open suddenly, a gale blasting inside. She tried to stand up, almost failed as her legs didn't want to cooperate and her chest felt like it had been cracked open, but, as she always did, she forced aside the pain and weakness with an awful effort of will and stood up straight, half out of the turret as she stood in the central area directly beneath it. Even as she rose to her feet, standing up straight, she drew both guns and grinned at Gibbs, well aware that she looked as though she'd died once already the state she was in.

"LIVING!" she bellowed back, well aware that what she was attempting was almost certainly a suicide mission, not least because she didn't even know for certain where the helicopter was, what to look for, even whether there were any tree branches that could kill her or simply knock her out of the vehicle even as it simply drove on along its nightmare drive. None of that mattered, if she failed they were all dead anyway. If the helicopter could draw a good bead on them they'd be incinerated before they knew it, in Hell before they realised they were dead-well, not _her_, but that was complicated. It was time to do or die, that moment in time she always enjoyed, the second between life and death...

She swung around slowly and steadily on the balls of her feet, not allowing her growing feeling of physical weakness to even register. She didn't have time for that right now.

_There_. A shift of movement just above the trees not far away, something artificial since the sun didn't glint off of leaves or wood unless it had been raining. Whoever was flying the chopper was going to extraordinary lengths to avoid being spotted, but why? If their mission was to take out the Humvee, they had to show themselves just to succeed. If they succeeded, nobody alive would know they'd been there. If they failed... Well, any sensible Merc team would have made sure all forms of identification would have been removed, regardless. Was the pilot _nervous_?

The helicopter suddenly reared up and out of the tree line and hurtled towards them so fast she almost fell over as she turned sharply to bring her guns to bear. Sleek, thin and long, jet black, tail rotor contained in a housing inside the tail section itself, one-way cockpit glass, missile bundles mounted underneath, what looked like a heavy gun mounted inside the nose area she guessed could be locked away by retractable panel. _Really_ fast and, even coming straight at her, she could barely hear the engine, despite the fact she could see the main rotors spinning in a nightmare blur.

The main gun opened fire first as the pilot had obviously seen her sticking out of the top of the Humvee, shattering tree trunks, shredding leaves, chewing up grass and soil, raining down on the armoured Humvee's side with a series of crashes and loud cracks which let her know the high-velocity rounds were going to break right through the armour with only maybe a couple more attempts. She returned fire seconds after it started shooting but, not at all to her surprise, the downdraft from the rotors and the buffeting from just her ride, let alone the wind and the choppers own movement, made sure that emptying her pistols at it scored her at best three hits, hits which did no apparent damage at all.

She didn't deserve the freak luck which stopped any of the rain of steel death from hitting her, although she was glad because a high velocity round would have torn right through her and left bits of her insides strewn twenty metres back. Sometimes she needed to be reminded that even though her aim was flawless, she couldn't just disregard the laws of Physics when they became inconvenient. She was going to need something special to handle this.

The chopper had disappeared behind the tree line again, but she estimated thirty seconds until it came back and finished the job. She ducked back inside to reload, slung her shotgun over her shoulder rather than across her back, shoved her Flash Grenade into a pocket and stood up again, ready as she could be. Even for her, this was going to be a stunt. The helicopter quickly swung back into view, gun ready, the pilot evidently sure he could finish the job without missiles if necessary. She thought he was right, which meant there was no more room for failure. This had to be _perfect_, no second chances.

_...Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn..._

She opened fire first this time, aiming at the rotors, the cockpit, anything which looked important it was possible for her to hit. In reality, all the pistol fire was intended to do was distract the pilot, as well as anyone else in the chopper, the plan was something more drastic.

The helicopters gun opened up again, a high-pitched screaming whine of hot metal rage being spat out at them, lashing anything and everything that got in the way to pieces or simply blowing it apart. It was getting closer and closer-a shell just missed her chest, slashing through her left arm and lacerating the flesh. The muscle somehow remained intact, so she held onto the gun, but she almost bit right through the inside of her cheek holding in a terrible scream of pain and rage. Closer...

_Now_. She pulled the grenades pin, counted it off and hurled it before covering her eyes and looking away. The Flash grenade detonated against the windscreen of the helicopter, blinding the pilot instantly, evidenced by the fact that it started to wheel and lurch about drunkenly in the air, the gun continuing to fire. Low as it was, there was still a chance it could pull out before it crashed. She couldn't let that happen, so she holstered her pistols and raised the shotgun. Firing at point blank was the only way such a limited weapon would have ever proved useful against a chopper, so her only chance was to fire now, as it swung wildly back and forth almost directly overhead-

She targeted what she thought were the fuel intakes and pulled the trigger just as the helicopter suddenly banked sharply and dragged its nose around, right towards her and the Humvee. Her shot connected dead on, punching through the intake cover and rupturing something that immediately began to spew black smoke, followed by fire. The choppers engine noise was suddenly very audible as the engine ran haywire, the revs racing at a higher and higher speed until a small explosion echoed as the overloaded safeties blew, which made the engine immediately cut out. The chopper fell out of the sky ahead and to the right of them as though it was being pulled down by Death itself, its rotors still slowly turning...

She only barely registered this, though, because the choppers last turn had aimed its gun right at her centre of mass. Worse, she'd been too slow trying to duck back inside the Humvee and the shell had hit her hard, cutting right through the lower right chest, through what had to have been her intestines and on out of her back. She'd suffered rather than seen the terrible eruption of thick blood and gore torn right out of her and collapsed instantly, rolling helplessly to the right a dead weight as she fell right out of the Humvee to her death, branches slashing open her exposed face, throat, hands and arms-only a hand had caught her ankle.

Another hand grabbed her loose-swinging other ankle and taut grips dragged her backwards, up, towards the hatch again. Things were starting to get a little fuzzy as this happened so she wasn't quite sure, but she thought that the Humvee had burst out of the woods onto a road even as she hung upside down like a side of meat by her feet. The Humvee was still racing along, that she _was_ sure of. Could she hear voices, people shouting?

"_...Pull her in!…_"

Yes, she could. That was Gibbs voice, she'd heard it enough over the last hour to be sure of him.

"_...Trying!..._"

That was Katherine's voice. She muzzily made a note to buy the other woman a drink if she lived through this, even dinner if she was willing. They could compare notes on suffering, she suspected that they'd have plenty to talk about now. It was strange what passed through the mind at times of near death experiences, she couldn't help but think. On some level. Things were definitely getting further away, not a good sign.

Through what was left of her flickering, failing eyesight, she dimly registered that they'd succeeded as she suddenly found herself back inside the Humvee, as alert and mobile as a sack of potatoes. She could feel the mortal agony of every single one of her injuries abruptly, all of them, in every fatal detail.

"_...DRIVE!..._"

That was...Katherine's voice. She was telling Gibbs to put his foot down, no doubt. Didn't matter, Selene was pretty sure it was already too late. Still, she appreciated the thought.

The darkness was coming up to meet her fast even as she got a last glimpse of what seemed to be flickering lights, caught the slightest hint of sound which suggested...sirens? The Police? Ambulances, maybe? Good for them. There were people here who needed help, even if she was no longer one of them.

_...Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin..._

/End of Chapter 13. All Reviews welcomed./


	15. Chapter 15

For all disclaimers: see earlier Parts.

All Reviews welcomed.

**The Last Day**

_Los Angeles, 1979_

There were things you never thought you'd do, then there were things you _should_ never do. As far as these things went, being in the USA with the tail end of the Vietnam War still settling was very much the latter.

That, however, was not her choice, nor was much of what had happened to her over the past eight years been of her own free will. No, she was a good Agent, she followed orders and did what she had to to survive, even when the thought by itself made her sick to her stomach.

Seduce and Marry a CIA Agent using a false name, identity and history to get highly classified information from him after gaining his trust? She could do that, he didn't know _her_ after all. Have a child with him, to make sure that he would never question either her or anything she might ask him? Well, she'd never wanted children, but in reality it would be...pleasant, she supposed, to leave behind something of herself on this earth when she was gone. More to the point, she could do much worse for a father of her child. At least Sydney would have him left to watch over her when she had to leave.

But to seduce her "Husbands" CIA Partner and closest friend, Arvin Sloane, with the intention of gaining access to his knowledge of Rambaldi and influence over him, as well as anything he might find out about the subject? If she'd been alone, or in Russia and somewhere safe, good old-fashioned Russian anger would have come boiling out of her in the kind of fury she was renowned for in certain circles, the kind which had once seen her cut both a mans hands off just because he couldn't keep them to himself.

Arvin Sloane was just like her, missing the important part which really made one human somewhere deep inside, burned away and lost in the aftermath of some past tragedy which had poisoned him inside and out. Dead cold and reptilian on the inside, with always-shuttered eyes which locked away the truth and a face which smiled but never spoke, Sloane was an icily efficient and terribly effective Agent and Spy whose ultimate goals had nothing to do with either the CIA or anyone he claimed to love. What he wanted and who he was revolved entirely around himself and his own needs, nothing and nobody else-just like her. Only, just like her, he had one link left holding him back.

She had her daughter, Sydney, whose innocent smile and soft brown eyes broke her heart every time she considered that she would one day have to leave her behind. Sloane had Emily, his Wife, the one thing in his life that ultimately tied him to who he was and _had_ been. She didn't doubt it, she _knew_ that once he and she grew cold and hard enough to force their way on past those "obstacles" in later life then there would be no stopping them.

That was why she hated him with a passion, he reminded her of who she truly was every time she saw him, let alone every time she spoke to him. A part of herself she wanted desperately to keep from Sydney-even though she had never been simple enough to believe that she could just ignore her child's natural intelligence and inquisitive nature, the fact that Sydney was a child being the only thing which kept her from asking her father why Mum spent so much time "reading" those Russian books they had imported. It was almost ironic, in a pitiful way. Her daughter, Sydney, even now had all the pointers to suggest that she would make a formidable Agent and Spy herself, if trained properly, in later life. Blood would out...

She gritted her teeth, forced herself to stop wishing she was anywhere else doing anything else with an effort of will, then leant back and sighed, releasing some of the frustration that so often built up inside her of late. Orders were Orders, especially from the KGB, she'd do what she had to and hope that the Extraction would come sooner rather than later more and more every day she had to be anywhere near that man. Jack, though, Jack... Him, she'd actually miss once gone. The one good thing about this place, bar Sydney. If only he'd been Russian, or remotely corruptible...

Her name was Irina Derevko but, in this foreign land, to everybody, she was Laura Bristow, good, honest Wife to Jack Bristow and Mother to Sydney Bristow. It was a lie, everything she said and did meant something else to someone else, a fact she couldn't change-and wasn't sure she should try to.

It had been so simple at first, draw in and bed the young American, gain his confidence, get into his home, his life in every way. Play him, use him and cast him aside like a worn-out set of clothes. Now, though? She could hardly think without Sydney intruding on her thoughts in some way. Jack? Laura had loved him once. Irina...suspected that she did now, too.

If she kept thinking like that she knew those watching would kill her, or worse, just to assert what they saw as their authority, so she kept what she thought and felt even further away from her than before, hidden under another layer of lies and manipulation. It was reaching the point that, in any case, she was ultimately lying to herself more than anyone else. She could never be honest with Jack, ever, nor even with Sydney, but it didn't change the facts. She loved her daughter, she might just love her husband-and she'd do whatever she had to do to keep them both safe and well. If that meant lying down in Sloane's bed, then so be it.

She paused in front of a hall mirror to adjust her appearance and make sure that there was nothing out of place. Long chestnut hair fell in a gentle tide to her mid back, framing a face of elegant, almost aristocratic lines highlighted by deep, dark brown eyes. Elegant hands were placed on her slim hips, while a powerful long-limbed body was partially concealed by a layer of fat she had allowed to develop to conceal her regular workouts from her husband. A cream shirt and brown dress highlighted her tanned skin, a change from the old almost pale Russian colouring she had carried, while outlining a figure which she was pleased to note had kept its firm lines even after childbirth.

She was strikingly beautiful, she knew that and enough men had told her so to be sure, but it had all been just a tool-once. Now? This place, this _life_ was starting to feel far too much like home...

She looked around at the house, small but solid, compact, the way Jack built everything. One floor, with master and child bedrooms, study for Jack, living room, bathroom, kitchen-well-supplied with everything, of course-spare bedroom in case of guests, store rooms and cloakroom. Light and airy, well lit with plenty of broad windows and two doors, one front one back, the front with a small garden between it and the road, the back surrounded by a larger garden itself surrounded by a tall fence. Paintings and pictures, of the two of them, family portraits and holidays, even a child's scribble by Sydney, were hung everywhere, making the house look and _feel_ like home. That was a fact some missed-but the ever competent Jack, of course, hadn't.

Just how much of herself had she put into all of this? Too much. She knew where every picture was, what it showed and where she-_they'd_ been at the time, even what they'd been doing. She could never resist the temptation to run a fingertip across the glass framing Sydney's attempt to draw a rose amongst waving grass with an honest chuckle...

She heard Sydney's laughter from out the back, sweet, soft and gentle on the breeze of a warm, sunny summers day. The sun was high and bright, warm on the skin, her daughter was happy, her husband was off with Sloane doing what they did, _she_ was unable to keep a real smile off of her face at the sound of her daughters voice...

The front doorbell rang suddenly, startling Irina since she hadn't picked up the slightest warning sign when she should have. She was hardly immune to threat here, Jack had enemies just like she did, she had to be on her guard for that and any other threats constantly. The slightest sound or glimpse of anything out of place and she'd have been off at a sprint, Sydney in her arms as highly developed instincts screamed at her to head for cover and safety-in this case a neighbours house where an attack would draw far too much attention of the wrong kind-but she'd sensed _nothing_.

She was a good Agent, very good, no boast, there were fewer than ten people alive she knew could surprise her and all but one of them were in the KGB. However, that just made it worse. If the KGB _had_ made her for the liar she was, they would make a point of sending someone they knew even she wouldn't spot until it was too late. Her mission and her Cover were too important for any mistakes, but that didn't mean she was irreplaceable.

She took a deep breath, turned and strode to the front door, resisting the urge to cross her fingers, a habit she'd picked up from so long living in America. She could and would deal with this, just like she dealt with anything and everything else. That fact didn't stop her from being thunderstruck when she opened the door and saw just who was standing on the porch.

Five eight, just under ten stone of solid muscle set around a slim, shapely physique which would have easily made any man and most women stop and stare, the kind of beautiful only a truly remarkable combination of Roman and Slavic blood could ever manage with traces of olive skin brought out by a lush tan. Aristocratic bone structure that was so perfect as to be indescribable in nature, the kind of physical grace that made words fail, full red lips parted in a slight smile...

Her curly hair was the truest raven black Irina had ever seen and ever would, while cobalt blue eyes which burned with intelligence and terrible, terrifying knowledge sliced into her like shards of spinning diamonds, demonstrating another fact about the woman-her insanity, because nobody sane would ever be anything like this, like _her_. Mavra Kalia Rasputin, the Raven, granddaughter of the Monk, Master Assassin of the KGB, the one person Irina knew could terrify a man to death by simply staring at them-she'd seen it done. Her old mentor had taught her much more than that. But...

"...Mavra, have you come to kill me?" Irina finally managed, not sure what else she could even begin to say. She'd been wrong, she couldn't handle whatever it was after all, to say the least.

"No, no, where would the fun in that be? Your...watchman is currently enjoying the services of a very professional Prostitute, who by now has drugged him, robbed him, stripped him naked to sell the clothes and dumped him somewhere he will not be found by the police. Don't worry, he'll never be seen again. No, no, I'm here for a little girl talk. Can I come in? Don't say no" said Mavra, a warning Irina knew was really an instruction verging on an order. She suppressed the urge to swallow as she remembered what had happened the last time someone had tried to tell Mavra "No", stepped backwards and opened the door wide.

"Please come in, would you like a drink? You do know that my Husband is a CIA Agent, don't you?" asked Irina, trying very hard not to let an edge of panic show through in her voice. Just Mavra's being in-country would get them both killed in public, the older woman had been on the CIA's Assassination List since 1963 and occasionally posted bits of CIA Agents and Assets sent after her to Langley to remind them of that.

"I should, I recommended you for this mission and I ran into him in Saigon in 75'. Literally, although he survived it since I was on my way out and knew who he was from photographs. Relax, Iri, the KGB think I'm running Black Op killing missions in Afghanistan to pave the way and the CIA doesn't know if I'm there or working on my tan in Hawaii, seriously. This is just you and me" said Mavra, striding into the living room where she slid onto the sofa and leaned back with the kind of luxurious ease of movement which made people who saw her move want to check she was real.

That was Mavra all of the time, though, Irina reflected. Everything she did, everything she _was_ was so impossible that nobody would believe it unless they saw and heard it with their own eyes, maybe even touched it.

"I trust you, Mavra, I'll take your word for it. So, girl talk? The last time you and I did that two men died. What do you want to talk about?" asked Irina, raising an eyebrow as she made her way into the kitchen.

"Pineapple juice if you've got it, thanks... Actually, I need to talk about a 500 year old inventor and philosopher with you. I think you know who I mean?" asked Mavra, looking around the house as she took in everything with quick glances which absorbed every detail on a level most photographers wouldn't capture. She didn't miss anything, though, that was just who she was.

"Rambaldi, meaning the KGB want me to do something else I won't want to and you're here because it connects to you somehow. Go on" said Irina, pouring Mavra a glass of pineapple juice before pouring herself a glass of water. Both glasses full, she walked over to the sofa and sat down next to Mavra.

"That's one way of putting it... Irina, my grandfather may have been completely insane, my father may have been worse. I may even be worse again, but none of that changes the fact that the family Rasputin has a greater understanding and knowledge of Rambaldi and his works than even the Knights of Rambaldi do-or maybe did" said Mavra, pausing to shake her head before going on.

"The KGB believes that you are the Source of Rambaldi's works, the "Woman of Dark Heart" who will have Rambaldi's Children with the man or men who are the "Man Of lost Souls", the Chosen One and the Passenger to you and me. Your sister, Elena, believes that you are destined to raise them, whoever the father or fathers, as scions of Derevko-hers, that is. Me?" said Mavra, pausing to theatrically roll her eyes.

"I know that you are destined to have these children, but I also know that Rambaldi will never speak through them to any of us. They will lead us to his works and teach us his aims, but we will never know what he intended until they discover that themselves. You and I may live to see what this means and is, we may not, but what is ultimately important is that they cannot and will not be controlled. People will try, including you, but nobody will succeed" said Mavra, shaking her as she looked out the sunlight outside, allowing a smile to cross her lips slowly.

"How this affects me is very simple: I am the last of the direct line of Rasputin, I have to finish what my grandfather began a hundred years ago now. I have to find Rambaldi's Tomb and what is hidden in it, then make sure it is never used. Ever. Look what some part of it did to him, to us" said Mavra, her natural Italian accent slipping through her Russian one as she relaxed. Irina barely noticed, sitting still and staring at Mavra's words. What was going through her mind was impossible to describe, all she could do was stare at Mavra until she could think again.

"Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin knew about Rambaldi?" Irina asked, slowly, trying to grasp even the concept-although she wasn't sure precisely why it was such a stretch. Few people in the history of Russia had been so demonised and reviled, especially with such genuine good reasons, but the "Mad Monk" had been called both a pilgrim and a faith healer in his time, as well as Magi, among other titles.

Where he was born was the one thing about him everyone really agreed on, how he'd become who he did and what he'd done over his lifetime were matters that would never be resolved. But-who would know better than a member of his family, his own granddaughter who had to have heard stories from the mans son? Rambaldi, though? Where did, where _could_ those two have connected?

"Why do you think nobody was ever really able to understand how Grigori could do everything he did, how he could know everything he did? When he was Murdered in 1916 he was on the verge of unearthing a little something called the Horizon, which I know would have led him on to the Tomb if he'd lived maybe a year longer at most, he'd already unearthed more than you'll ever know. When he was killed his collection was scattered or destroyed. The Reds and the Whites looked at it for weapons and knowledge useful in war, the Knights of Rambaldi couldn't save much with the Tsar fallen and a Civil War going on where even animals were targets" said Mavra, a dark expression crossing her face as she spoke of the Civil War. Irina had to wonder why, Mavra was only thirty-nine, too young to remember any of that Hell.

"My father spent his whole life reassembling most of what Grigori had known to finish the job, but I killed him and destroyed what he'd found after committing it to memory before he could finish the job. Don't ask why or what I know about Rambaldi because of him, or why I want to destroy Rambaldi's Tomb so much, Iri, you don't want to know and wouldn't understand anyway. Suffice to say, the Knights of Rambaldi have forgotten far more than they'll ever know" said Mavra, before snorting at something Irina could only guess at.

"_When the stars fall and Life is known, the world will burn and truth will be told_. Sounds almost Biblical, doesn't it? It's also me paraphrasing from a document I read in 1954 that my father treated like the Holy Grail. Rambaldi's "Master Plan" was tied into it in a...significant way. If it ever actually happens, the world will end overnight. Trust me" said Mavra, her eyes and face going hard, which coming from her was almost enough to scare Irina.

"As to why I'm here and telling you all of this? Irina, I know that you've been ordered to bed Sloane and have a child with him to cover all of the best possibilities according to KGB research. I know that you're in touch with your Sister, Elena, through the books you get your Husband to buy for you. I _also_ know that you're already Pregnant-and that the child isn't Sloane's. So I'll tell you this much as a favour, since now you know why I'm going to do what I will in the future and a little of what I've done in the past" said Mavra, before pausing and leaning forwards to look Irina very directly in the eyes. Irina almost flinched, but met her old Mentors eyes without hesitation. She didn't need another knife cut to conceal from Jack.

"Neither of these children will ever really be yours, Irina, so make a choice, now, before you no longer _have_ a choice. Your family or Rambaldi, which is it to be?" asked Mavra, softly, her voice suddenly so quiet that Irina could hear the breeze against the windows outside the house. She'd always known that she'd have to make a decision like this in time, of course, but to be called on it by the Raven herself, who clearly knew everything the KGB didn't...

"Mommy?" called a child's voice from the doorway, causing Irina's head to whip around so sharply she almost fell off of the sofa. Sydney was standing in the doorway, short hair at the base of her neck, brown shoes, creamy white dress and shirt only making her look more like an Angel than she usually did to Irina, making her throat constrict with real physical pain. Oddly enough, she would later realise, that was the very moment she made up her mind what her decision was. She couldn't take a child she cared about into the world she was part of, she _wouldn't_. That made her choice remarkably simple, in fact.

At the time, though, with Mavra Kalia Rasputin in her family home and her child daughter less than six feet away from her, other thoughts were quickly spiralling through Irina's mind. How long had Sydney been standing there and how much had she heard? How had her daughter got so close without her realising it? More important than anything else, what would Mavra do about this? Irina doubted she could actually stop Mavra if the older woman set her mind on anything...

"Do you speak Russian, little one? " asked Mavra in flawless Russian, her Italian accent disappearing again, rising to her feet with the same impossible grace she always displayed, rolling her head and shoulders as she stood up straight. Irina's mouth went dry, she didn't know what was going to happen here but she didn't want Mavra thinking of Sydney at all if it could be avoided. Things...happened to people who got the Raven's attention, particularly when she found them useful, even potentially.

"A little...I..." Sydney replied, in flawless Russian picked up from her mothers strictly secret lessons when her father was away. Irina winced, considered her options. She had few good one's if she wanted to avoid broken bones and considerable loss of blood. She just hoped that Mavra would think of Sydney as no more than the naturally intelligent, inquisitive child she was and not a future potential. If she did? One of them would have to die.

"Sorry, Mummy says I should practice more. Your very pretty" said Sydney, slipping back into her natural American English and staring at Mavra in what was clearly an expression of near-awe. Naturally, she wasn't at all scared in the presence of a woman who had likely killed more people in less than forty years on Earth than Sydney would ever even meet.

"Thank you, young lady, that is very kind of you to say. Now, I know that your mother will explain this to you as well, but you must understand that anything you may have heard her and I discussing is not to be discussed with your father, or even mentioned? Women talk to women about things men must never know, of course? Good" said Mavra, to a quick nod from Sydney, which earned her a ruffling of the hair from Mavra.

"You are your mothers daughter, little Sydney. Now, I wish to show you something. Watch closely" said Mavra, kneeling down in front of Sydney. Even as she spoke, she produced a golden coin in each hand held between thumb and forefinger. Then she smiled at Sydney-and began.

Irina had seen the trick before, many times, performed by people other than Mavra herself, but the impossible ease and skill with which Mavra did everything always made you want to see it again. As the gold coins seemed to just disappear from between finger and thumb in both hands only to reappear and disappear, circling round and about, across and along her hands, dancing from finger to thumb to finger to palm to finger, back and forth again and again, trails of gold seeming to settle all over and around her hands, fingers and thumbs in an extraordinary display of physical skill and dexterity, Irina remembered why Mavra did this. People looked at such skill and beauty but nothing else when she acted, momentarily forgetting where they were and who they were with. It was a form of memory trick, meaning Mavra was making sure Sydney wouldn't remember details she shouldn't with such a superb distraction...

When Mavra finished, with the coins held between finger and thumb once more, Sydney was simply agog, her jaw hanging open wide, her eyes so wide open they resembled a set of marbles as they bulged. She had to blink several times, slowly, before she could even close her mouth. Irina didn't blame her, she'd first seen the trick at nineteen when the KGB had recruited her in 1970 and the effect had been, to say the least, breathtaking even to a young adult. To a child? It had to seem like magic. Of course, what about Mavra was not breathtaking?

"...Wow... Um, wow...can you, kinda, teach me that?" asked Sydney, slowly, not taking her eyes off of the two now-still golden coins at all.

"I could, but it would take time and I'm just visiting, so you'll have to ask your mother how I do it. Take care of yourself, little Sydney, maybe we'll see one another again some day. Farewell, "Laura"" said Mavra, with a nod before she turned and strode away, right out of the house as the front door banged shut behind her. Irina only started to breathe again when her body forcibly reminded her that she was holding her breath, even then trying hard to prevent panic from setting in. With Mavra's visit, there were so _many_ complications which could have arisen...

"She was nice, Mummy" said Sydney, coming forwards to sit next to Irina on the sofa. Irina paused for a long moment, then suddenly swept her daughter up in a such a tight hug she heard and felt Sydney's breath being blasted out of her lungs as she was practically compressed into her mother's body. She didn't know how many more times she'd ever have the chance to do that, just as she knew that, one day, she'd never have another...

_Unknown location, 2007, three days ago_

Her eyes were crusty with the salt of tears caused by pain and humiliation, sticky with traces of what could only be her own blood. She could feel cuts, scratches and bruises, burns and the still tingling after effects of electric shock all over her body, taste the blood in her dry mouth drawn when she almost bit through her lower lip trying not to scream during the last session. Some of her ribs were cracked and she thought her jaw might be, too. She could feel her heart pounding hard and fast, displaying the fear she knew she felt but _always_ kept hidden away deep down inside-only not now.

She was strapped to a gurney wearing little more than a plastic sheet and what amounted to a nappy to control any discharge from that part of her body caused by the abuse her body was taking. Held down by padded metal restraints at head, chest, waist, elbows, wrists, knees and ankles, she couldn't move at all and could barely breathe as often as not. She hadn't been fed more than a slice of bread a day and maybe a cup of water, which she suspected could be drugged, since she'd been brought to this place-wherever, it was.

Trapped underground in a place with no lights when she was left alone she had no real sense of time passing nor, sometimes, any real certainty whether she was alive or dead. She didn't know where she was, how she'd got there, who'd brought her there or why. What she _did_ know was that they'd tortured her, every day, since her arrival, sometimes for hours, beatings, electric shocks, drugs, sensory deprivation and worse-whatever they felt like trying that day, it seemed.

The fact that her "clothes" let anyone who wanted to have a good look at her naked body and do anything they wanted with her powerless to stop them was a psychological ploy, she knew, but that made it no less effective. The things some of the men who'd been in the room had whispered they were going to do to her once she'd given them what their employer wanted, one after the other they'd warned and threatened...

Was it any wonder her mind had slipped in time back to the last time she'd seen Mavra when they'd both still worked for the KGB? If there was anyone, including Jack and Sydney, _anyone_ she knew who could get her out of this mess, even at her age? Mavra, the Raven, would be it. The fact that she was even admitting the fact she would need to be rescued to escape from this nightmare made her chest tighten. She'd always prided herself on her resourcefulness and intelligence, with good reason. Very good.

This, though, was different. She'd known that the second she'd managed to place the voice of the lead interrogator through the Hellish haze of pain she was always trapped in when she heard it, straining everything in an attempt to get some kind of hold on what was being done here, to her. More importantly, why? It had all begun with a question about _him_: Rambaldi. That had been what she'd finally needed to stir up her memory and remember that voice, just why she'd be so interested in what Irina knew nobody else did.

It was her sister, Elena Derevko, asking the questions, ordering and even participating in the torture and abuse of every kind. There was only one reason she could want the information Irina had, which was the reason Irina had to do anything she could to make sure Elena never received it because of what came next. None of that changed the fact Irina was sure she wouldn't die to protect her secrets, which is what she knew it would take to defeat her sisters efforts.

Vicious white lights suddenly snapped on, all over the room, blinding Irina and ripping an involuntary yelp of pain from her as the brilliant light seared eyes long adapted to total, dead darkness. She forced her eyes shut with tears streaming down her face from the pain, trying not to remember the equipment, machinery, tools and drugs she knew she'd see all around the room when she could see again in the light. All of them would be used on her, again...

"Hello, sis" came her sisters cold voice suddenly, as she dimly registered the clanking sound of the heavy metal door, the only entrance and exit, opening before several people walked in, men and women. "Ready to get started again?" asked Elena, even as Irina began to slowly make out shadowy large, human shapes in the room with her, all around her, all of them clutching a variety of objects or tools...

Y

_Pyongyang, North Korea, 1985_

"Elena, will you sit _still_-?! Thank you. You fidget worse than that man with a nervous twitch did, you know? Her had an excuse, though" said Mavra Kalia Rasputin, her voice a sultry sirens song touched by honey and sex with traces of an Italian accent. Sighing, she settled her eye in again, taking in the sight that was her friend Elena Kurakin once more as she lifted the brush.

It was late on a bright summers day, ever-present humidity still making the air damp and thick while sunlight lit traces of grey clouds high above, even as the bright blue sky was touched by traces of an early darkness approaching. The sunlight illuminated the worn redbrick buildings and often-dirty windows everywhere, reaching on down to pavements and roads worn down by millions of feet crossing every day. Vehicles still drove past at a steady rate, car, trucks and motorcycles, while amongst them people rode bicycles and rickshaws about.

Few people could be seen anywhere out on the streets by themselves, but that was normal for this country, where the "Great Leader" of the country was also its absolute ruler. When even what you said in innocent comment could put you in jail for decades, nobody was encouraged to mix and mingle with strangers or even friends. It didn't make for much of a life for any of those people, or for much of a country, but it seemed to be what its leaders wanted. Speaking for herself, she hated it here.

Green fields and high hills, rice paddies and bamboo forests, rivers, waterfalls, natural sights to fill the mind, a fabulous history of conflict and culture that had left physical marks and places to see everywhere. Korea had all of these things, even split in half by stupidity and conflict, in abundance. But the part she was in was more interested in creating armies, guns and plans for a War of conquest and "liberation" that she knew would never happen in her lifetime. The North was better at spying on its own people than actually doing anything, a simple fact. Back home in the USSR she did it herself for the KGB, she had since she was sixteen years old one way or another... Twenty-eight years had passed since then, something which almost made her pause for thought. There _was_ more to the USSR than this backwards stupidity shown here, yes...? No one could expect to retain the same position and power forever just through fear?

She chided herself, she had to stop thinking about these things. If she thought about it too much she'd end up _doing_ something about it, which meant that she would finally have to admit she preferred the Americans and their country. She'd been to their country, the USA, twice, enjoyed it, but she couldn't live there. She'd end up killing people just to get some peace. That place never stopped moving, was never silent, actually one of its greatest advantages.

"Hello, Mavra? While I appreciate that you have to take a moment to breathe occasionally, if anyone saw us like this I suspect questions would be asked" said Elena Kurakin, voice soft and musical with traces of a Russian accent.

Half-Russian half-Chechen, Elena Kurakin had taken after her Chechen father in looks. Ice-blonde hair cascaded smoothly down her back while sky-blue eyes gleamed in a fine-featured face that made her fabulously striking, if not truly beautiful. Slim and svelte in nature, physically compact, she was long-limbed and hard-muscled with easy curves that flawlessly settled into her form.

She was lying naked under pale silk sheets on a king-size bed with her hair down and loose over her shoulders, chest and back. The sheet was just low enough to give a more-than-subtle hint of what lay below it as tanned skin gave way to rising curves. Sunlight illuminating pale highlights in her hair and bringing out the deep blue of her eyes only made her ever more striking, breathtaking even. Mavra didn't need any reminders of Elena's physical attributes, though, any more than she had to look at the other woman's pert rose-red lips to think of them...

"They'd only ask _once_, Elena, don't forget I have a reputation. Now breathe in, stop moving for a while and relax. Good..." replied Mavra, staring intently at the easel in front of her with the half-painted outline waiting. She'd failed to mention to Elena that she'd never painted before except as a child, over thirty years ago now, but it didn't matter. She could do this, she knew she could. With renewed determination, she applied her brush to the canvas and more of a shape began to take form, features began to fill in, colours appeared. It wasn't as hard as it looked.

"So can I ask you why?" asked Elena suddenly, although not so suddenly that she disturbed Mavra's concentration. Mavra answered without breaking her stroke for a second.

"Ask me and I'll decide, Elena. Just be careful what you report to who" replied Mavra, with a smirk. Elena shot her a mock glare at the comment, since she knew her odd friend would never betray her confidence. As insane as it sounded, if there was anyone all of her secrets were safe with...

"KGB or CIA? Ha. Ha. Ha. No, its personal. Quite simply, why me? Every man we've met in North Korea in almost two years now would have given up a limb to have you in his bed, let alone on his Payroll, yet you chose me. Why?" asked Elena, honestly wondering what the answer was. She also wondered whether Mavra might actually answer her this time.

"Well, you do keep asking me that, Elena...Maybe I should tell you so that you will stop? Yes, I think that I will" replied Mavra, with a slight smirk as she shot a quick look at Elena, who breathed in deeply at just the right moment. The sight almost broke Mavra's concentration again, but she managed to think of other things and distract herself. It wasn't easy, but then what worthwhile ever was? Elena was worth the price, in any case.

"It is very simply, 'Lena, that I trust you where I do not trust anyone else in this entire rat-infested sinkhole of a rotten corpse of half a country. Every single man I know here and every woman I can think of would sell my secrets just to gain advantage and hurt me, at the very least. If they thought they could get away with it, they would have me dragged out to the rice paddies, held down and raped by the entire hierarchy here, but no one will come near the "Blood Bitch" without an invitation. I believe what I did in Afghanistan after the invasion still terrifies people, you know?" said Mavra, pursing her lips as she focused on the portrait once more, adding delicate touches to build in the distinctive features.

"Mavra, the Mujahideen were so afraid of you in Afghanistan the Spetsnaz still swear that entire bands of fighters ran into the hills and abandoned their weapons rather than risk annoying you. You killed so many people in Kabul and the heights around it no one will put a number in the air to even be considered, torturing most of them to death people say. You have told me yourself you locked twenty people into a closed room and threw two grenades in before showing their families what was left to convince them to stop fighting our forces. You burnt down a Mosque with fifty people inside and had breakfast while people screamed for mercy as they were burnt alive. To _not_ be afraid of you shows a failure of intelligence. However, I must say that I hope the fact you trust me is, while flattering, not the _only_ reason you took me into your bed?" said Elena, with a sensual smile.

"What can I say, Elena? Korean men...tried them, can't keep it "up", to quote the American's, or at least not long enough for me. I don't _like_ women that way, besides which all of them seem to be scared of me. Your _not_. More to the point, asides from being the one person I've met in North Korea I've wanted to spend any time at all with, you are far too formidable an opportunity to pass up, I know that for sure now. We should not have had to get drunk before we did something about it, but I regret no part of what has happened since" said Mavra, before pausing for a moment. "Oh, I am...excited by risk as well, Elena, you know that. "Seeing" an Undercover CIA Agent who officially works for the KGB this way... Do I need say more?" asked Mavra, raising an eyebrow.

"Ah...no, of course not" replied Elena, blushing slightly at Mavra's frank appraisal of her skills in bed. "I appreciate the compliment, Mavra, thank you. However, I must ask something before we do anything else..." said Elena, almost apologetically.

Mavra sighed, she knew what that meant. "Go on, Elena, ask" she muttered, as always disliking this part of any real conversation they had.

"How is the development of Project: Christmas coming along in Moscow, Mavra? You know why I need to know" said Elena, speaking so quietly that Mavra barely heard her. Mavra didn't blame her, she was only asking because Langley was aware that Elena had a very senior source of Intel that tied directly into the appropriated and revised Russian form of Project: Christmas and so had given her very specific Orders to get everything she could, no matter what. She could have given them the entire Project on a plate, of course, but she wanted to keep Elena with her as long as possible so she only let out bits and pieces of significant Intel every time.

Of course, if the CIA had had any real idea at all who Elena's source was, Mavra knew, they would have pulled Elena out from behind the iron curtain so fast her feet wouldn't have touched the floor before locking her away in a deep, dark cell for years until they could decide what to do with her, if they ever did. That would have been on top of sending yet more Assassins to kill her, of course, more heads for her wall. Nobody dealt directly with the Raven, it simply wasn't done-not least because she'd once sent back a top American agent she'd caught in Leningrad inside several small boxes after running him through a sausage machine a number of times, with a note saying "Eat me" and his home address written on the back.

"Developments progress as expected, subjects continue to acquire new skills, knowledge and meaning with every session with an increase in the learning curve evident as more specialised subjects and forms of knowledge are addressed with greater efficiency. Targeted education based on a full psychological and physical profile determined to best fit the individual has proved the most effective means so far. I could go on and on, but I happen to have written it down somewhere for you so maybe you could read that before eating it? Good" replied Mavra, her smile all but disappearing.

She paused a moment and slouched back on her stool, shifting away from the easel in front of her. Long, loose raven-black hair fell down over her shoulders easily to her waist, brilliant cobalt blue electric eyes colder and harder than arctic ice and millennia-shaped old stone gleaming in a face of fantastic, almost unimaginable beauty granted by a mixture of Slavic and Roman blood. Her physique and body were the deepest, darkest hidden fantasy any could imagine even in her middle years-she was 45 years old, she sometimes had trouble believing-while golden skin touched by a dusky tone made her seem almost a lost Masters work of art as the sun highlighted her, a woman so far out of the "ordinary" that the word had no meaning. A loosely tied ruby-red dressing gown barely decently covered her body, long legs thrown out and bare in front of her as she sat on the stool. Just the "clothes" she was wearing reminded her of her Italian blood, somehow.

People who'd met her had a joke shared amongst themselves they thought she didn't know, that she was the daughter of the Devil on Earth only no one had told her. After all, how else could someone like her ever be rationally explained?

"That would be fine, Mavra, thank you. You know I hate having to ask you these things, but I still have to. Sorry, really, again" said Elena, trying and failing to catch Mavra's eyes.

"Don't worry about it, really. I find it quite entertaining doing the CIA's job for them for once. In any case, I have you to remind me of why I should every day. What more could I need?" asked Mavra, a smile drifting across her face again as she openly took a very good look at Elena's barely-hidden body. Elena's answering expression would have made anyone who saw her face think of one thing only, a chuckle rich with sensual promise floating from her lips.

"Come over here and tell me that, Mavra..." said Elena, the sheets on her body slowly sliding down from her shoulders to reveal more and more of her body, gaining more and more of Mavra's attention as they did. "After all, I'm sure that we can spare an hour or two..." Elena continued, voice husky and eyes hooded as her breasts slipped into view and the sheets continued to fall lower.

Mavra didn't say anything else, she simply put down her brushes, stood and allowed her gown to fall smoothly, softly from her shoulders and then her body to the floor. She walked to the bed nude, where Elena lifted the sheets in an obvious invitation which Mavra accepted without question, silk-smooth soft skin touched by slick sweat pressing close together as full, firm curves and soft bodies pressed tight together, Elena's lips hungrily hunting down Mavra's even as both women's hands spread out across the others body.

It was stupid, crazy even, they'd be lucky to live through being found out doing this together and the two of them well knew that they would be sent to some frozen long-lost part of Hell on Earth even if they did survive a discovery like this, but neither cared. Happiness and satisfaction were things the two of them had known very little of in their lives, particularly the older Mavra, so when the chance was offered they had both seized it with both hands. They had no intention of letting go, either, ever...

_National Art Gallery, Washington D.C., 2007, three days ago_

Standing looking at a picture she had given away almost twenty years ago and tried very hard not to even think of again since, with some success, Mavra Kalia Rasputin sighed. As if she'd needed to be reminded of _this_...

It was a sunny day outside, the sky clear and crystal blue, utterly devoid of obscuring clouds, the sun high, bright and brilliant. The gallery was a three storey white-painted building with multiple colonnades supporting the roof at the front of the building, rising up from the top of a set of broad stairs, massive windows which were made of reinforced glass and could be sealed by steel shutters being set high and broad in every wall. Eight feet tall and six wide double wooden doors with steel reinforced centres were held open at one end of the main building, while inside elevators, staircases and long walkways separated the levels.

Interior doors cut off areas of the inside structure, but the soft creamy paint coloured the inside and out in such a gentle way that, added to the brilliant sunlight and clear sky, even she felt no sense of risk or danger anywhere nearby. That very feeling was so unique, she'd actually taken a moment to savour it on walking in. Then she'd started looking at all of the hundreds of pictures, letting her mind drift back and forth in time. Some she knew, some she didn't. Some, she was quite certain she'd actually inspired or had no little influence on, with or without her knowledge. Then, she'd found the one she'd been looking for, on the ground floor, in the main front room, displayed almost as obviously as possible.

It struck her as almost typical, even almost two decades after her old friends and lovers death, that people would still be talking and thinking about her, admiring that sculpted natural beauty nature had gifted her with. Elena had been that kind of woman, she drew attention wherever she went when alive-and the eye. Mavra knew from literally intimate first-hand experience what it had been like to have the young woman under your skin and in your mind in her prime. Of course, she hadn't lived to get old...

Mavra, though, had and, at times like this, she felt every one of her sixty-seven years. Her black hair was shot through with increasing amounts of grey, wrinkles were forming at the edges of her eyes and mouth, a body and beauty that men and women had once killed and died for was going soft and weak, her muscles were getting soft and flabby as age defeated her attempts to retain her physical prowess. Her eyes and her mind were still as sharp as ever, though, facts which she used to counteract simple physical weakness with the resourcefulness and intelligence that had always served her well in her long life.

Getting old just meant that you had to accept you could no longer do everything yourself, that was a conclusion she'd come to when she'd hit sixty and discovered her first grey hair. Given her age, she'd been tempted to suggest that even nature was afraid of her for it to have taken six decades for age to reach out for her-but she was mad, not stupid. She'd always been gifted, physically and mentally, although maybe saying that she _was_ a gift would be more accurate. She'd met precisely two people in her life who could have kept up with her and matched her if they'd been of a mind to, one of whom she'd killed. The other? Crazy as she was, she wouldn't have traded places with him for anything. Some fates really were worse than death.

It occurred to her that given her clothes, she probably looked almost normal for an old woman, which was close to a first. White blouse, black skirt, solid black running shoes just in case, purse in a handbag slung under her left arm-she was ambidextrous, so it didn't matter which one she used-she could actually have passed _for_ normal, just the thought of which was almost enough to make her break down laughing hysterically. If she'd broken down like that, though, she'd have had to kill everyone who saw her loose control, so she didn't. Everyone had their "ticks", hers were simply more extreme than most.

"Interesting painting, isn't it?" said a female voice to her right. She'd identified the speaker as late twenties and a beauty, young money creating arrogance in her voice and manner, a "future ruler" type destined a short sharp shock of a wake-up call soon, even before she turned to face the speaker. Analysis and character assessment were things she had always excelled at.

Long ice-blonde hair, grey eyes, easily beautiful with the kind of figure and physique which told of four-hour workouts in the gym every day, rich red lips glowing in the sunlight slightly parted to reveal gleaming white teeth. Dressed in a one-piece light-blue dress that left her shoulders and arms bare, slit up one side to the thigh for ease of movement, slit down at the front just low enough to reveal a hint of cleavage. No older than twenty-nine, at most. Richly designed gold-rimmed silk purse held in a light grey shoulder bag which looked almost as expensive as the dress in design.

Young money and a little in the way of brains with good looks in the moderate range, a young woman trying to show off to an ageing form of competition to show herself her own superiority. She was on a timetable here, this she did not need. That meant the woman had to go.

The younger woman was just lucky she was old now, a decade ago she'd have stabbed the woman in the heart under the left armpit where no one could see, walked the "ill" woman outside to a bench where she would lie down until she recovered, then be long gone before anyone thought to check. That didn't mean, though, that what she was going to do instead was going to be in any way more pleasant.

"Brilliant and hideous, actually, depending on what you think happened to her. She disappeared in 1989 into the prisons, or at least they called them that, of the KGB, after being betrayed by Aldrich Ames as a KGB Agent working as a Double Agent for the CIA. That, though, was just the beginning" said Mavra, her eyes narrowing as she looked straight at the painting.

"Once there, they took her apart piece by piece, limb by limb and then by organ, sectioned parts of her mind apart from the rest and broke her a bit at a time. She was drugged, tortured, mutilated, raped, dismembered and abused in every way a human mind cannot imagine, unless you know me. It took them a week to find out what she knew and who she was for certain, after which they cracked her chest open while she was conscious and started removing bits while she was still alive and able to scream, draining her blood at the same time, since it was "fun". When she finally died, there wasn't enough left of her intact to identify her with. They cut up the remains and fed them to wild dogs, I didn't find any of this out until a month later because it was a Treason Trial. On the other hand, she's the one woman I ever actually fell in love with and, yes, she was just as beautiful as the picture suggests. Something wrong?" asked Mavra, raising an eyebrow as the woman turned a very odd colour and began to look distinctly ill.

The young woman abruptly span and ran off, shoes clattering as she raced away with a hand over her mouth, drawing several peoples confused stares. Mavra shrugged, some people just couldn't handle the truth. Some crazy old woman telling a disgusting story would hardly draw people's attention, so she had no worries of people remembering her for this.

Glancing around as she heard four new sets of footfalls enter the main hall, she actually, honestly smiled one of her rare, real smiles. Finally, they were here. She'd been beginning to think she'd have to track down her informant and cut his hands off...

Two men and two women, the older woman middle aged, the older man her own age. The two younger versions were clearly brother and sister-and the children of the older two, both bearing a marked resemblance to their mother. Oddly enough, though, there was only maybe a passing resemblance to their father for even the practiced eye to see. Of course, he probably thought that was a blessing after everything he'd seen and done and never wanted his children to know about over the past almost four decades...

The younger man was chestnut haired with dark brown eyes, a professional athletes slimly muscular frame with heavily developed leg muscles his dark blue jeans didn't conceal identifying him as a sprinter. His creamy white t-shirt outlined a well-developed chest which she was sure got him plenty of female attention, added to his easy good looks and a quick smile. He was twenty-one years old and recently graduated from University, just like his twin sister, who was a few minutes younger and different enough from him that only a good look at their family tree would reveal the truth.

The sister had cloudy grey eyes and very dark brown hair, with the kind of gently developed physique which spoke of a jog every morning rather than strenuous physical workouts every day being used to stay in shape. Pretty but with average good looks at best, the young woman had inherited her mother's talent for numbers where her brother had inherited her fathers physical prowess. Her skills were in her head, his were on the playing field. Wearing a light grey sleeveless summer dress the young woman revealed smooth skin and freckles brought out by the sun, which only advertised her youth. Still so young-Mavra cut that thought off before it took her to a place she'd sworn never to go.

The older woman had light brown eyes and hair, although the hair had largely gone grey even though she was only in her late fifties. With striking features which made her attractive rather than either pretty or beautiful, she drew the eye wherever she went even in advancing middle age. Her eyes gleamed with a penetrating intelligence that had carried her far in life and could well have carried her much further, if she hadn't made the decision to stand by the man she'd later Married no matter what so soon after they'd met. A soft red dress seemed to be intended to defy the years, outlining a still-firm figure and highlighting her still-effective good looks. It worked, most of the men and some of the women had made a point of sneaking a look at her as she walked past.

Her name was Marie St. Jacques-Webb. Her sons name was Jonathan, her daughters Angela. Together with their father, they all had reasons of their own for being in this place at this time, the main one being to celebrate the youths graduation-supposedly. Mavra knew better, she didn't doubt Marie did too. For their father, this place held almost as many memories as it did for her. Given that he was a born and bred American, in fact, the only reason it didn't mean much more was an injury to his mind he had suffered decades ago which had never truly healed, leaving him with, at best, fragments of the past to hang on to or grasp at. She'd always wondered if she was one of those parts, now she was going to find out.

She looked him over from toe to head before meeting his eyes. Soft brown shoes, solid and hard, easy for running in or employing as weapons if necessary. Loose but close-fitting light brown trousers, wouldn't restrict his movements and could be used to conceal weapons if necessary. Short-sleeved light blue shirt revealing arms muscles that belonged to a man twenty years younger than his sixty-seven at best, warning anyone who could see him that he was still strong and capable even at his age if they wanted to cause him trouble. Hair iron grey shot through with traces of the easy brown colour it had once been, wrinkles starting to define his face, eyes and mouth just like her were. Hard eyes that seemed unable to settle on any one colour even in the brilliant sunlight, flickering from green to grey to blue as he moved, features that never seemed to settle flowing across his face even as thoughts clearly went through his mind, not that she could hope to guess what they were.

When she did meet his eyes, though, she knew he remembered her, even as she turned fully to face him, head cocked slightly to one side, letting her smile stay on her face. He stopped so sharply that his Wife and children didn't even notice he had and kept chatting amongst themselves as they walked on before, after several seconds, Marie noticed he was gone and looked back to find him. Seeing the expression on his face, the look in his eyes, she followed his gaze and came face to face with Mavra. Then she took a step backwards, grabbing an arm from each of her children to stop them too. They both stopped and looked at her, puzzled even as Mavra began to walk towards their father with the easy, liquid unnatural grace she'd always had.

"Mum, what are you-?" began Angela, but the look her mother shot her made her stop speaking in a second. It wasn't fast enough.

"Marie, take the children and get out of here, now. Don't look back" said the old man, his voice so cool that it made both of his children stare at him. Clearly, they'd never heard him talk like that, but she wasn't surprised. They didn't know the man who was speaking to them now at all, with good reason. She did, so did Marie, as the alarm showing on the other woman's face made obvious.

Marie turned and strode away without a backward glance, almost dragging even her much larger son, who at just over six feet and close to fifteen stone of muscle could have carried his mother and sister on his back without much trouble, in such a way that neither brother or sister protested even once. Clearly, the old man had made sure his children knew all about necessary discipline, although he'd never told them why.

He waited until she reached him, face to face, their breath warming one another's faces, before he spoke again. "Did you know your dead, Mavra? You died in Brazil fifteen years ago, your body had to be identified using DNA it was so rotten after two weeks in the sewers of Brasilia" he said, his mouth a thin line, eyes angry.

"Clearly you have no respect for my fathers proclivities... David Webb, _you_ died seventeen years ago soon after the first Jackal "disappeared" in Novgorod. You walked into the sea one day to protect your family after realising your family would never be safe while you were alive, only they gassed themselves when they realised what you'd done. Remarkable, really, how all of us elderly scum keep coming back while the youth of today slaughter each other with abandon on the front lines, isn't it? When we were young, there was never so much of a mess everywhere" said Mavra, looking Webb straight in the eyes, so close she could have kissed him with a breath. She was tempted to...

"True, our kind of carnage was never televised because we made sure nobody found it. Now you have to destroy a building and kill a hundred innocent people, in case, just to get the attention. Mavra, this is not a casual conversation about old times, people like you and I do not get old and die in bed surrounded by loving family. We bleed to death on cold stone or warm sand nowhere on earth anybody will ever find on the day we finally make a mistake. If were very lucky. What do you _want_? More to the point, what are you _doing_ here?" asked the old man, his voice reaching glacial levels of cool as he almost snarled at her.

"Grow up, life may be cheap but we sell our Souls expensive and you should know the difference by now. What do I _want_? I've wanted three things in my life, one's dead, one's a cripple, the last I'm still working on. What am I _doing_ here? I'm here for _you_, "Old Man", or did you really think that nobody would find out about your deal with him?" asked Mavra, raising an eyebrow.

The old man's face went blank for a moment, then he sighed. "I see, so this is Blackmail. What do you want from me? Blood? Money? Names? I don't honestly care any more, anyway, you can have what you like, but if you go near my family I'll slice you to ribbons and eat you alive. Just a friendly warning" said the old man, with a sharks smile cutting open his face.

"Did you know I've actually done that? Cooked a living man over a slow fire, sliced strips off with a hunting knife and chewed them to see what they taste like? Kind of like...chicken, but too much fat for my tastes, all soft and rubbery unless well cooked. The organs are better, once you drain the blood out and cook them well. Just a friendly word of advice, David, _don't_ threaten me, ever. I fought my way right through Afghanistan, finished off Vietnam, slaughtered my way across the entire world for the KGB over thirty years and could tell you things which would kill you now. Agreed? Good" said Mavra, the smile never disappearing from her face.

"I'm not here for _anything_ but a friendly chat, David, a word of warning to the wise, really. If I can work this out, so can others-and when they do? Life will have no meaning for you and yours. I walk between the raindrops, I'm the shadow you never see, you look around and I'm never there. All of that is true. But I'm not really unique, just different, so it is only a matter of time. You need to watch your back, even if you've finally realised the point of all of this, David, trust me on that" said Mavra, before leaning forwards suddenly and letting her lips meet his for the briefest of moments.

He was shocked and it showed, but she enjoyed the lingering contact for a few seconds before stepping away and letting the fingers of her right hand trail across his left cheek, then she walked away. "I should have married you..." she said, voice drifting back to his ears even as she walked away for the last time.

His name was David Webb, it always had been and always would be, but that wasn't the only name he used. He'd once been known by another, too.

_Jason Bourne_.

/End of Chapter 14. All Reviews welcomed. /


	16. Chapter 16

For all disclaimers: see earlier parts.

All Reviews welcomed.

**The Last Day**

_Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, two days ago_

The alarm went off at six, causing Nadia to roll out of bed and dress almost automatically. She pulled on a sports bra and pants, sleeveless white t-shirt, shorts and a pair of pale cream trainers before grabbing a towel and shampoo from next to her bed, where she'd left them the previous night. She knew where the Embassy's gym was, she'd scouted it out last night and it was visibly well-equipped, so she'd decided that she'd forgo her morning run given such unknown territory and use the facilities to make up for the lack. She worked out in a members-only gym four times a week in LA on a regular basis in any case, this was just a slight disruption to her schedule.

Dixon, she knew, used Tai Chi to flex every muscle and work every joint first thing in the morning, combining this technique with swimming, weightlifting and running to maintain his exceptional physical form. She wasn't afraid to admit she'd taken a couple of good looks when he wasn't fully dressed for one reason or another, or that she hadn't minded at all the sight of rippling hard muscle under still-smooth skin, the laughter lines on his face and intelligent soft brown eyes that could go as hard and cold as Arctic ice in a second if necessary... But she was never going to try and do anything about it.

The fact that Dixon was old enough to be her father himself was only part of it, the rest involved his two children and-most importantly-the relationship between him and _her_ father. Sydney had told her everything she knew about the history of the two men, which was considerable, but the way Dixon looked at her sometimes when he thought she wasn't looking, the way she'd caught him reacting to even mention of Sloane's name when he'd known the fact would never get back to Sloane... She had no doubt at all that matters between the two men would only ever be settled when one of them was dead, or worse. Nothing _could_ ever happen between her and Dixon...

She shook thoughts she didn't need to be having at such an early hour out of her head as she moved at a quick pace to the gym. There was nothing like exercise to clear your mind, after all. She kept thinking that until she stepped into the gym, which she'd hoped would be deserted, until she saw just who had beaten her there.

Flaming red-gold hair, tied back in a tight ponytail, jade-green eyes flashing in a sweaty face that was still easily so striking the woman would have stood out in a packed room, helped by a physique that would have cleared space for her at a crowded drunk bar if she'd just smiled. Dressed in grey cycling shorts and a sleeveless white t-shirt that exposed her entire midriff, grey gym shoes on her feet, the older woman was unmistakeable. Sarah Bell, the senior JAG officer Nadia had met last night, who looked none the worse for wear despite drinking more alcohol herself than Nadia and Randi put together had. Like Dixon, someone who knew her limits Nadia suspected.

"Morning, Helena. Here to use the facilities or do you want to spar?" asked Sarah, snapping a powerful punch-kick-punch combination into the punching bag she was standing opposite with such force that she drove the heavy back a good foot backwards in the air. Nadia knew enough about martial arts to recognise the technique, which made the woman go up a notch in her estimation.

She was using the _Lerdrit_ fighting style, the Military version of the Muay Thai. She'd known people who stated that a Master of Muay Thai could eat a Black Belt from several other techniques for breakfast, she'd also seen it demonstrated. If this woman knew exactly what she was doing, she could most likely take anyone in the APO team with the possible exception of Sydney apart with her bare hands. Of course, that wasn't considering the numerous dirty tricks she knew Jack and Sloane always had up their sleeves just in case.

"Just here to work out, thanks, Sarah" Nadia replied, with a genuine smile of pleasure at seeing the older woman again. She'd been good company last night, not least because of a talent for storytelling she'd cheerfully employed to leave Nadia and Randi in stitches, doubled over laughing their heads off as she went over a very unusual take on how Ronald Reagan had first become President.

"Fair enough, don't mind me" replied Sarah, turning back to her punching bag full on. Nadia went on to use several pieces of equipment in the gym in near-complete silence, which she appreciated, working up a good sweat during her half-hour work out before going back upstairs to use the shower in her quarters. She passed several others heading down to the gym on the way up, mainly off-duty guards, all men, which she was glad of because the last thing she'd wanted was men's eyes on her as she worked out and her clothes stuck to her body. Obviously, Sarah had enough experience with men from her time in the Military to have reached a place where it no longer bothered her. That just made Nadia glad she'd never considered going into the military, some things about herself she didn't want to have to change.

Twenty minutes later she was showered, dressed in a light grey skirt and jacket, pale blue shirt and brown shoes as a polished Diplomatic assistant, her hair tied behind her in a tight ponytail and makeup applied-despite the fact that she preferred none on missions normally. She was ready and waiting, briefcase with junk paper designed to resemble Diplomatic documents since it would never be examined in one hand, ten minutes before Dixon was due to rendezvous with her at half past. However, when he still hadn't arrived at twenty-five too she went looking for, puzzled and a little worried, since she knew from experience Dixon never missed deadlines.

The sight of his open room door made her automatically reach for a weapon, but her hand stopped halfway when she recalled that she couldn't carry anything as part of her cover. Instead, she shifted to close quarter combat poise and pushed open his door slowly with one hand. It opened into a small recreation room, with TV., radio, minibar, chair, phone and some other amenities, just like hers. A door to her right opened into the bedroom, but it was open too-and she could tell he wasn't there, although the strange scrambled pattern of the sheets suggested that he'd struggled out of bed in a real hurry at some point. She cleared the bedroom, then moved to the only room left-the bathroom, the only room where the door was actually closed.

She gave it a quick shove, only to encounter resistance even though she could tell it wasn't locked-and to catch a trace of a stench that almost made her gag. Holding her breath, she shoved much harder, this time shifting whatever was holding the door shut-and caught sight of Dixon's dark form, lying limp inside against the door. His dead weight was holding the door shut...

She shoved so hard she almost skidded but finally forced the door open, wrenching her way through the opening she'd created and quickly checking Dixon's pulse. It was strong and steady, if maybe a little slow, but once she'd established that she had plenty more to be worried about. The blood-laced vomit in the toilet, the filth, the awful stench of someone whose bowels had completely let go...

She couldn't help but think, later, after she'd forced her way out back past the door and managed to compose herself enough to call a Medic, that even Jack would have had trouble remaining unruffled at the sight and smells she'd been greeted with on finding the unconscious Dixon. Maybe he'd even have been impressed by the calm, controlled way she'd handled herself, although she doubted it. Come to that, she still couldn't work out just why his good opinion would matter to her so much. He wasn't her father and her...feelings concerning him, while complicated, had little bearing on her professional life. Was she missing something?

Before she could stop herself, Nadia had let a thought cross her mind that she did her best to ignore or suppress under all circumstances, since all it did was cause her pain and there was no way of fixing it. Maybe her mother was the missing link that could have explained everything she didn't understand...?

_LA_

Sydney Bristow slowly fought her up and out of an alcohol-induced haze as the buzzing continued in her ear, dragging her back towards consciousness faster and faster even as her stomach rolled in open revolt and the taste in her mouth made her gag. Her eyes were sticky with something, almost gummed shut, but she managed to crack them open-only to be briefly blinded by brilliant early morning sunlight.

That snapped her out of her stupor, forcing her to flail around wildly until she managed to shield her face and eyes with one arm even as her other arm swiped around, her hand automatically grabbing her cell phone from the living room table and flicking it open. She managed to glimpse the caller ID before she answered-APO, which almost certainly meant Sloane. Brilliant. Just how much had she _had_ to drink last night, for her to not even be able to remember the answer to her own question?

"...Hello?" she eventually managed, after a massive yawn and cough interrupted her attempt at a quick response. God, she felt like she'd tried knocking back an entire bottle of Vodka in one go again and almost succeeded, not that she was ever going to admit she'd actually tried that once when she'd been so miserable she really hadn't cared what it did to her. It was a good thing she-supposedly-had stepped off of that path now...

"_Sydney? What took you so long? This is the third time I've called_" came Sloane's sharp voice, a hint of irritation in his tone. That wasn't good, Sloane didn't annoy easily and he rarely ever got truly annoyed with her. It wasn't just because of the odd relationship between the two of them, either, where Sloane still regarded her as his daughter in reality, no matter what anyone thought. It was mainly because of the exceptional record and skills she possessed, added to the fact she was rightly regarded as a "Go-To" Agent for whom failure was not an option. He knew he could rely on her-but he also knew her well enough to be sure that she wouldn't fail to answer the phone on the first call unless there was a significant reason why. Given her current status of being on Medical Leave, she had little doubt that he would have her put in a CIA hospital under observation if her apparently fragile psychological state continued to worsen. She couldn't let that happen until she found out what was going on herself-or it would drive her crazy, she knew.

"I've been having trouble sleeping since my...episode...so when I finally managed to rest it was very late. I must have been exhausted not to have heard you call earlier, but I'm here now. What do you need?" she replied, covering instinctively. Sloane was the last person she needed to find out about the state she was really in, after her father that was.

"_I see. You should talk to Dr. Syal about all of this you know, or we do have other options. However, now is not the time. I am calling you because I need every Agent I have working here to keep hard at work, which leaves you for another angle. I recall that you are on Medical Leave, of course, but this is a mission which requires diplomacy and, to be direct, a woman's touch. No significant physical activity or conflict should be involved, so as long as you are careful this will allow me to make you useful again. Should I continue?_" asked Sloane.

Sydney knew Sloane better than that, no matter that there would always be a great deal about the man she didn't know. He knew she wanted back in because of her father, despite her complicated issues at the moment, because he had no doubt at all she would do whatever she could and had to to find out the how, where, when and who. Sloane, well aware of just how useful she could be, couldn't use her directly against a Doctors Orders, but as a man who always saw all of the angles he'd found an indirect way around it. She could live with that-for now. Even as she thought that, she finally got around to looking at the table to see just how much she'd had to drink. Two empty bottles of wine sat atop the table, stains running down the outside of both. Clearly, she'd ended up drinking straight from the bottle in both cases. _Oh, Hell..._she couldn't help but think.

"Go on" she replied, shaking her head. The last time she'd been this bad...? Blond hair seemed to flicker across her face and brush over her eyes, but she ruthlessly suppressed the memory. She didn't want to remember _anything_ good or which had even _seemed_ good about that mad, traitorous bitch. Not now, not ever.

"_Good. Dixon checked in late last night with some new Intel. We have an address and ID on Jades younger sister, Dao Sien Ma-currently Hannah Corvay-currently resident right here in LA. I'm E-Mailing you the details in a secure package, get back to me as soon as you have what we need_" said Sloane, then he hung up.

Sydney staggered to her feet slowly, managed to make her way over to her Laptop on uncertain legs which put her on her knees in front of the armchair the computer had landed on, opened and activated the computer then checked her E-Mail. Sloane's package, of course, was already there. She used the APO Decrypt program, made sure to memorise the information then "burnt" the package using the system the CIA used to make sure there were no traces left of electronic messages or data trails, as upgraded by one Marshall Flinkman.

That done, she decided on a quick shower and plenty of perfume, uncharacteristic of her as that was, to cover over the sweaty stink of too much alcohol. If she went anywhere public looking and smelling like she did now, rumpled and ratty hair, make up smeared over her face, eyes bloodshot, barely able to walk and talk at the same time, even in the rumpled remains of good clothes from yesterday? She'd have people reporting her to the police as an alcoholic and vagrant at best. She had the time this time, at least.

_The USA_

Toni Cummings came awake slowly, feeling cramps and pains in parts of her body she wouldn't even recall were there normally. As she recalled where she was and who she was with, however, the reasons for her discomfort quickly became apparent.

She was asleep in the car Artemisia Hades had rented using false ID and papers in Canada, lying across a back seat with her head cushioned on one arm, a light blanket over her as she tried to make her almost six-foot frame somehow fit into the width of a car maybe four and a half feet wide. She could barely feel the arm her head had been resting on at all, both her legs were so cramped that she suspected she'd have to use her hands to straighten them before they'd even function, she felt so gritty it was as though she'd been covered in dust while she slept-a result of the car not being new or recently cleaned, she was sure-and her throat was as dry as a bone. A wonderful start to the morning-but, then, she could be dead, so actually waking up to a new sunrise was a bonus she was coming to appreciate more and more as time went on.

Artemisia, being the freak that she was, had elected to stretch out in the cool darkness of night, with who knew what wildlife out there in the wilds, sleep wild and just enjoy the fresh air. If she hadn't already known it was true, that would have convinced Toni that Artemisia was crazy. It had been Artemisia's idea for them to spend the night under the stars in a wilderness area, leaving no paper trail, electronic signature or track for anyone following them any way but visually to follow. Now the car was concealed in the thin greenery of a small forest, driven under the eaves and camouflaged with carefully placed leaves and branches.

They were safe, Toni knew that for sure, but she had to wonder if Artemisia was always so paranoid as to go to such lengths to avoid even possible detection. Not that, of course, she'd be complaining in her current situation. On top of which, she knew for sure, Artemisia could cut to shreds anyone the Evolution Cadre might send after them...

Where _was_ Artemisia, though? She'd lain down near the car but, levering herself up on her elbows and looking out the windows, Toni couldn't see even a trace of the young woman. Even better, now she'd have to go and find the madwoman before she could find out what surprises she had in store next.

Pushing open the car door, Toni dragged herself around and about before using the ground and her hands to drag her legs out to full length. That done, she massaged and worked the muscles of her legs until she'd recovered enough sensation to be sure that she could stand and stood up, carefully, shutting the car door behind her. Slowly and carefully she walked out of the forest onto the dirt track they'd driven in on, walking on to stand atop a stump so she could get a better look around the muddy small valley they'd ended up in, hopefully allowing her to see more-could she hear _singing_?

She could, a voice high and clear and _very_ easy on the ears, the kind of sultry, earthy purr that one more commonly associated with people seen and never heard on strange telephone lines. A _woman's_ voice, which left only one option-and she hadn't even known Artemisia _could_ sing.

Stepping off the stump, Toni cast around for direction and strode off towards where the singing was coming from. As she got closer, she caught the sound of running water almost hidden under the singing, but she still had to stop and stare when she finally broke through the tree cover and got a good look at what Artemisia was doing.

Standing under a small waterfall in a fair-sized pool with clear water that rose up to her hips, water which ran away down a small stream that led away from Toni's left, Artemisia was bathing and washing her long hair, apparently oblivious to or uncaring of the fact anybody could simply walk in on her soaking wet and nude. Despite having seen the woman that way before, Toni still found herself having to stop and stare. Artemisia was the kind of beautiful which stopped young hearts with a smile and, straight or not, she knew, every time, that when the young woman wanted to get her attention all she had to do was flash some flesh with a grin and the older woman would stop as though pole axed. She didn't like the fact anybody could have that sort of effect on her, anybody at all-and Talia was the only other woman who'd ever displayed the same "talent"-but she was only human and, more importantly, she wasn't getting any younger. That, though, was only part of the reason she stopped and stared. The rest was because of the fact she could never quite take in, no matter how often she saw them, the tattoo's Artemisia had.

A massive bloody-red fire-bright tattoo of the Devil's head designed to appear like a Dragons encircled her entire torso, taking in her shoulders, throat and hips. Long golden-green snakes curved sinuously around both legs, heads seemingly eating her feet while tails met right over the base of her spine. Her upper arms seemed to be held by thick webs which wrapped around and around her flesh, black as the darkest Sin and thick as the worst forest the scared could ever fear being lost in.

Her forearms were marked differently, her left forearm having a golden Pentagram drawn on the inside, a bloody circle drawn exactly opposite on the outside, while her right forearm had an ancient Huntsmans wooden bow drawn loaded on the inside, a long golden streak of lightning illuminated by sparks of brilliant blue being exactly opposite on the outside. A tiny bloody-gold Phoenix decorated the left side of her throat, barely visible against her darkly tanned skin, while writing was visible across her upper back in bold black script and in smaller letters across her belly.

The words across her back spelled out an English word-SINcere. "Live in Sin but keep your promises" was what it stood for, or so Artemisia had told her. The other one was in Chinese, but meant "What nourishes me also destroys me". If all of that didn't convince anyone who saw it all the woman was crazy, Toni would have bet good money the _watcher_ was crazy. Body art was one thing, she had a very bad feeling every time she saw Artemisia's physical decorations that they actually _stood_ for something only the woman herself understood. She almost wouldn't have been surprised if she'd found the numbers 666 at the base of Artemisia's skull sometimes, but that drunken fumble they'd shared a year ago had let her find out for sure that the numbers were _not_ there, even as Artemisia's firm lips trailed down her breasts...

Toni shook her head very abruptly to clear her mind as she found herself recalling, again, against her own will, the heat that caress had generated in her guts, the almost overwhelming temptation to thrown caution and even intelligence to the wind and let this passionate madwoman have her wicked way with her. What had saved her was complicated, but had been led by the fact it was no secret not all of Artemisia's lovers had survived getting intimately close to her. Almost all of them would have said that was a price worth paying for a night in the arms of a woman like _that_, but Toni wasn't one of them and never would be. She hated to admit it, but Artemisia scared her sometimes, more than a little...

"Are you coming in or not? You need to wash up too, you know. I won't bite, unless you ask me too" said Artemisia, without looking around or even moving at all.

That was another thing Toni hated. Artemisia couldn't _be_ taken by surprise, or shocked, or even distracted, her focus and concentration were laser point direct but she still never missed anything, at all. She was always more aware of her surroundings than anyone human had a right to be, in Toni's professional opinion as a Security Specialist, during which she'd met a large number of people who'd had all _kinds_ of unusual skills and histories. None of them, bar Talia, could even hope to hold a candle to Artemisia. Not even Sydney "Miss Alias" Bristow.

Regardless, she needed Artemisia on her side until further notice to keep her safe until she could reach someone who could keep her _really_ safe. Not that Artemisia couldn't, but that was a price she _wasn't_ willing to pay. She had someone else, very specifically, in mind anyway.

That meant she had a decision to make. Just how far could she, _would_ she go to ensure the volatile Artemisia's loyalty for as long as she needed it...?

_Virginia, USA_

Gibbs, his injured arm in a sling with stitches and antiseptic sealing up the wound in his shoulder, a mild sedative and painkillers making him more comfortable moving around, stared at the hospital bed she was on in a way which made everyone watching think that he believed he could change the outcome of what had happened to the woman lying there by simply not accepting it. Given the look in his eyes, some of them were actually convinced he _could_ change her fate through sheer force of will...

His whole body was scratched, bruised and battered, he was still suffering from significant loss of blood which made him feel light-headed far too often, but at the moment he had no time for any of that. He didn't care that every single medic he spoke to said he had to lie down or the strain of his injuries on his ageing body and heart could actually kill him. He didn't care that his shoulder wound could put him out of action for weeks if not months. He didn't even care that he had an investigation to run, whether or not he was in any fit physical state to participate, a fact which would have stopped dead in their tracks anyone who knew him as well as the members of his team did. He didn't care about anything at all right now, beyond the fact that the woman who'd saved his life, Kate's life, Panov and Conklin's lives, was lying dead on a hospital bed and there was nothing at all he could even begin to do about it.

The white walls, ceiling and floor almost shone with sterile cleanliness, all of the medical instruments were wrapped in plastic and carefully stored in safe places, bar the bloody one's which had been used in the futile efforts of the Medics now standing uncomfortably silent. The Medics themselves were wearing surgical scrubs and face masks, which disguised them so well that he could only identify individuals by height, gender and eye colour. Closed Operating Theatre doors shut out the noise from outside, leaving only the steady beep and whine of various medical scanners and instruments overlaid by the sound of several people breathing. The room was so still, silent and quiet as he stood over the dead woman that he almost felt as though, even though he wasn't a religious man, he was in Purgatory.

Was it wrong that it felt so right? That when he left the room he'd be back in the real world and have to go back to the day-to-day chaos and anger of dealing with pain, death and every form of suffering nobody should ever see? With yet another death on his conscience when it should, again, have been him? Like in Vietnam? Like in Kuwait? Given the fact that-_no_, this was _nothing_ to do with _that_ old pain. He would just have to deal with it, like he always did, like he always would, until it _was_, finally, him... No, he'd lost far too many people in his life. He'd just have to deal with this the only way he knew how that still served, that served what still passed for the much-mocked justice he still believed in. What kept him sane. He _knew_ what to do next, all he needed was time.

"Gibbs? Can we talk?" came Katherine's voice from behind him. She didn't ask if he was all right, of course. Unlike most, she knew better after something like this. For one thing, she'd clearly seen the look in his eyes on her first day back at work after she'd recovered from that bullet in her head...

"Sure. She's dead, we know what comes next. Give me an update on Conklin and Panov" said Gibbs, turning around to look at Katherine. Terribly enough, she was in even worse shape than he was.

Her burnt hand was wrapped in special bandages designed to both clean and disinfect the wound, bandages which went halfway up her forearm. The bones in the forearm had been cracked when the heavy chair had landed edge-first on her arm during the attack, so she was wearing a splint and more bandages all the way up the same arm up to the elbow. Parts of her face had been scalded by the blast that had roasted her hand, so she was wearing a special gel on the injured areas, while the blast which had initially thrown them in all directions when they'd dived for cover had wrenched her left hip so badly when she'd landed she'd almost dislocated it, leaving her moving at a careful limp at best.

With bruises, contusions, scrapes and cuts decorating every part of her battered body atop everything, she looked as though she'd run through a blizzard of bullets while being beaten with a sledgehammer while ducking a flamethrower. He didn't need to be a Medic to be sure that she'd never use her injured hand again with injuries like hers, which would almost certainly force him to reassign her from the field to a desk-an utter waste of a very talented Agent. He was still trying to think of a way around it, perhaps he would yet?

"Panov's alive and conscious, but he's lost his eye and had a heart attack. They had to resuscitate him and he's heavily sedated, so we won't be able to talk to him for a while. Conklin should have been decapitated by the bullet, so the Surgeon says. It's a miracle he's even still alive, let alone in one piece. He's in a deep Coma on a Life Support machine, they say even if he wakes up he might not be able to breathe on his own ever again and he _won't_ be able to talk, the bullet shredded his vocal cords. I...take it she didn't make it?" said Katherine, clearly unwilling to even look at Kate's shattered wreck of a body. He didn't blame her, he'd seen every kind of death there was in every form there could be and he'd had trouble taking in the shredded remains lying on the hospital bed.

"No, she didn't. So we have work to do, no matter what else may have happened. Come on, lets get to it" said Gibbs, turning and striding out of the Operating Theatre in a way which stated aloud he would have run right over anyone who even tried to slow him down or get in the way. Kate was only a step behind, despite her limp.

After they left, one of the Doctors turned to look at the senior Surgeon, still keeping his voice low for a reason he couldn't easily have explained. "Sir...shouldn't we have told them?" he asked, slowly.

The Surgeon, clearly an older man with wrinkles showing outside of his surgical gear and a trace of grey hair showing beneath his cap, just shook his head. "What would have been the point, Thomas? What could he have done about it? Hell, _I_ don't understand what the blazes is going on here..." he replied, pulling out a penlight and turning it on before using two fingers to spread open the eyelids of one of Kate Aquila's eyes. The light revealed only one thing, even when backed by the subdued if still penetrating lights of the Operating Theatre. Kate's eyes had gone utterly jet-black on her death, for what reason and how nobody there could even hope to explain or guess at.

Everyone was so preoccupied with her eyes, however, none of them so much as glimpsed the brief twitch of one of her little fingers.

_Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam_

"Repeat that again, more slowly...he's _what_?" asked Nadia, for the third time, well aware of what the answer would be but still having trouble taking it in. People like Dixon and her just..._didn't_ suffer from things like this.

"I _said_, Ms. Santi, that your superior is suffering from a severe case of food poisoning. I would say he has been unconscious for at least three hours and almost certainly has a tear inside his throat, given the amount of blood he has evidently lost. Since you have little idea what he ate and drank last night, the most I can do is have all of the food and drink in his room tested and then destroyed. I should call the plane you and he arrived on as well to warn them that there could be a serious problem with their supplier or suppliers of food and drink as well as or instead of any possible source here. As for his current condition?" replied the Doctor, turning to look over his shoulder at the still-unconscious Dixon now dressed in surgical scrubs and lying peacefully in one of the Infirmaries beds.

"I believe that he will regain consciousness in at most two hours, once most of the contamination has washed through his system. However, even after that he will be weak and likely physically incapable for up to a day afterwards, if there is no relapse I should point out. He will make a full recovery, no question of it, but no more quickly than that" said the Surgeon, for the third and clearly last time given his expression and the look in his eyes. Well, it was all being laid out clearly in such a way that even someone with no medical experience at all, such as her-almost-would understand it first time around, which she had. She was trying his patience, but only because she couldn't quite take in what had somehow happened...

"Thanks. I've got a call to make" she said abruptly, then she turned and strode away quickly. Well, it wasn't as though she couldn't handle this Op single-handed, even though she'd originally been placed as Dixon's Backup. But...increasingly, coming from instincts which had never failed her yet, she was getting a definite sense of disturbance. Something was wrong in this place, so wrong that she could sense it if not see it, something which led straight back to a source she didn't have the first clue about yet. What was she missing? She didn't know, but she needed to work it out-and soon. First, though, she needed to call APO and update them...

Her train of thought was disrupted as she caught a glimpse of a young woman going the other way, dressed in a Doctors white coat, shirt and black leggings, hard black shoes on her feet. Lightning black hair fell easily to her waist, tied back from her face and head in a tight ponytail, while a face with truly delicious sculptured features that would have burnt themselves into memory at a moments glance was highlighted by full red lips and brilliant bright amber eyes that made Nadia instantly think of a great hunting cat. The woman's natural grace was indescribable as she moved, but Nadia's memory supplied the right word when her imagination couldn't somehow-the word was _predatory_.

With a hard-muscled physique the lines of which were not concealed by her clothes to take in, added to the strange half-smile that seemed to be playing around on her lips, the woman had to be in her mid thirties given Nadia's educated guess but looked far younger. Dark-tinged caramel skin made her most likely a native of India or near, it only added to the woman's almost disturbing exotic good looks, she was the kind of beautiful used to describe the fabled Rajput princesses. Almost as an afterthought, she registered the crimson bindi dot in the centre of the woman's forehead...

Only twice in her life had she ever run across a woman of any age or description who had taken her breath away on first sight, the second time had been when Sydney had been lying in hospital and she'd never know that woman's name. The first...

"Artemisia...?" said Nadia, slowly and quietly, not even realising that she'd spoken aloud until the Doctor stopped sharply and looked around. She raised an eyebrow, inquisitively-and Nadia couldn't help but notice the quick up and down glance the woman gave her. From the look in her eyes, she didn't mind what she saw at all...

"I'm sorry?" asked the woman politely in perfect English, no accent at all coming across, her name tag Nadia could now see identifying her as "Dr.". Nadia, to her considerable embarrassment, found herself temporarily tongue-tied as she met the woman's eyes for the first time-and almost fell into them. She held back with an effort, she _really_ didn't want to end up considering anything like _that_ after last time...

"Nothing, I'm sorry. I was just...thinking aloud. Goodbye" said Nadia, then she turned and hurried off as quickly as possible, trying not to look back at what she knew would be an amused expression on the other woman's face.

The Doctor waited until Nadia was out of sight, then shook her head and made her way to Dixon's room. Opening the door slowly and carefully, she checked the room and made sure that there was nobody else inside as well as nothing suspicious, then stepped inside and locked the door behind her. After waiting a minute to be absolutely sure, she sat down on the bed next to Dixon and placed a strong hand with elegant fingers over his heart, taking in the feel of his strong, steady heartbeat with an evident strange sense of pleasure. She leaned in so close to his ear only he could even possibly hear her, then spoke.

"Wake up, Marcus, it's Ashwariya. We need to _talk_" she said, so quietly it was barely above a whisper. Dixon's eyelids fluttered to open even as she spoke, as though her strangely accented, almost soft yet hard, throaty voice was reaching down for him through his unconscious mind...

_LA_

"Hannah Corvay's" home was a medium-size luxury apartment, part of a multi-storey design with broad windows that automatically darkened in sunlight to preserve privacy. Broad and spacious, it was easily worth more money than Sydney casually wanted to think about even as an elite member of a CIA Black Ops unit operating under the most extreme form of deep cover. On the fourth floor, it had a broad balcony that contained a large-leafed dark green plant Sydney's memory informed her was native to Vietnam. That was practically a marker for anyone who knew what to look for-but since Jack Bristow, her own father, had been the one to hide the then-child away from _everyone_ back in 75', when she'd first got here? She was sure only people who had access to Jack's personal files-only Marshall, Vaughn, Dixon and Sydney herself did, although nobody was clear about Sloane-would ever see it that way. She couldn't help but wonder just how "Hannah" herself saw it all?

The walls were tall, smooth and a creamy white in colour, while strategically placed greenery added to the effect of pleasing both the eye and the mind if you considered the solid structure of the building. With equal parts greenery and gardens set amidst pavements and a small covered parking area, clearly residents only, Sydney upped her estimate of what it cost to live here a notch. Just how much money did "Hannah" make, anyway?

Well, she was a Producer on films and various TV. series, so the most likely answer was an awful lot. Given her cover, Sydney had made a point of not learning too much about her, however. The Cover was very simple, the easiest way to get "Hannah" to talk that she'd been able to come up with. She was posing as a former associate of Jades, one who Jade trusted implicitly, enough that she'd mentioned her younger sisters existence. Why? So that she could always be sure someone reliable was watching her sisters back, no matter what. Sloane had passed her as much detail as was available about Jade, her Career and her life before she'd even begun to plan the Op. She'd just have to hope that it was enough.

She knocked on the door, having made sure that the woman would definitely be home with careful checks before hand, arranged her dark suit and cream shirt more carefully to make sure that she presented as professional an image as possible and made sure to stand up straight. There was a slight noise from the door and it opened partway, to reveal a single slanted, brown fawn eye. Sydney's memory instantly matched it to her sisters photograph, taken over thirty years ago, matched the two and locked them together. The sister's eyes were the same, too close for it to be anything but a sibling resemblance. She had no doubts about it now, this was "Hannah Corvay".

"Yes?" asked the woman, her voice soft, almost gentle. Despite that, Sydney had no trouble hearing every word.

"I'm a friend of a friend, here to check up on you for her. Can I come in? I don't think I should go on in the corridor" said Sydney, glancing around quickly as though it was important that she wasn't seen or heard. Anyone sent by Jade would, without question, be under very clear instructions not to draw any attention to her sister at all, of any kind, _ever_. Assuming she was actually alive, that was...?

"Yes, you should have stopped with the second word "friend". Now get inside, woman, before my neighbours notice that I have unexpected guests" said Hannah, sharply, the door shutting again briefly before a security chain rattled and it was pulled open. The pleasant, soft voice had disappeared immediately when Sydney had "identified" herself, what was left was cold steel covered with ice. When the door opened, Sydney got her first good look at Hannah even as she walked inside.

Five feet two inches tall, very pretty but not beautiful, short dark black hair falling to just above her shoulders cut in a smooth line ear to ear, smooth face but with an unmistakable sense of age and pain almost hidden behind her eyes that had no place in a woman twenty years her senior if Sydney was sensing the truth. She walked with a slight limp on her left side, as though she was suffering from some unseen pain, even though there was no evident injury and Sydney's research had stated she'd had no significant surgical procedures or severe injuries at any point in her life. She was only wearing a sheer white silk robe, so her slim physique and slight form were laid clear to the eye. To Sydney's professional eye...she looked odd, as though she was maybe too thin, lacking in what should have been heavier muscle. Or was there something else she wasn't seeing?

"Well, then...what's her name?" asked Hannah, shutting and locking the door behind them as she turned to face Sydney. Sydney knew that she needed to be careful here, one misstep and for all she knew Hannah would pull a gun on her. She'd decided on extreme caution before she'd ever set foot in the building, so that was how she was going to play it.

"She said not to say, just to say that she remembers you and hopes your safe. She knows that you know where she is if you need her, or any help" replied Sydney, replying with considered care as she locked eyes with Hannah. She was a truly proficient liar, she had to be as a Spy, she could have stated that she'd met Stalin for a few drinks the other day with utter conviction and been completely convincing, so she just hoped that she was getting what she needed to pass by the awkward points right. It all depended on how well the sisters really knew each other and what contact Protocols they had.

Hannah's eyes narrowed, but she nodded, briefly, once. "Alright...sit down and lets get it done. What will you have? What's your name?" she asked quickly, the two questions coming so close together they were clearly intended to catch her out. Fortunately, SD-6 had taught her to do a lot more than simply adapt to any given situation, much as she often hated to admit it. They'd also taught her how to take control of it.

"Gin and Tonic. Melissa Hane. On the sofa all right?" replied Sydney, taking a moment to scan the interior of the apartment. Creamy-cushioned thick and heavy sofa for three, two armchairs, a TV. and stereo system that was so large and powerful looking it had to be state of the art at the very least, a huge cinema screen partially covering one wall. A massive DVD collection was set inside a transparent acrylic case, with as broad a collection of films as Sydney could imagine in one place clearly available. Next to it was set a minibar, which looked and clearly was well stocked by the number of bottles and glasses set around and in it.

The light brown carpet underfoot was rich, thick and almost fluffy, clearly designed for comfort, while various paintings of several areas of the world covered the walls. One of the largest, not at all to Sydney's surprise, was a sunrise over Vietnam of exquisite design. A bedroom, bathroom and studio were all behind closed doors, but the bedroom door had recently been opened and wasn't fully shut. She could spot the edges of a king-size bed with rumpled sheets surrounded by mirrors in the room, a sight which forced her to blink. With a mirror on the roof and on every wall anyone in that room had no privacy from anyone else in there, which spoke of either voyeurism or exhibitionism. Sydney's estimation of Hannah's personal wealth went up another notch, even as a new strategy came to mind. There were ways she could work with this...

"Of course. Do you know, I'm thirty-six years old and I still don't know what my favourite drink is? Sad, isn't it? Here you go" replied Hannah, walking over and handing her a half-full glass. She'd taken the same again for herself-and Sydney had kept a discrete but close watch to make sure there was nothing "special" in it, just in case. She'd been caught that way, by "friends", before.

"Not really, I'm only a year younger than you and I'm still making up my mind" replied Sydney, taking a sip of her drink out of politeness before continuing. She kept the fact out of her eyes and off of her face, but she had no idea why she'd given that age as hers. She was thirty-two, so why...?

It came to her suddenly with the kind of resounding "Click" that all of the far-too-late realisations did when she was in crisis mode. She'd just identified herself as Julia Thorne without even consciously making the _decision_-!

"Oh? Well, then...since you haven't asked, I pulled a muscle in my leg last night while I was in bed, with both of my lovers. I presume you don't want me to illustrate that?" asked Hannah, raising an eyebrow.

"NO. I'm not here to discuss your...personal habits, I'm here to make sure that you...live long and prosper" said Sydney, barely even aware that she'd quoted Spock even as she felt an odd buzzing at the edge of her consciousness. That was ridiculous, she'd barely had a sip and knew her limits...

"For your information, it's a combination of truth serum, sleeping drugs, suggestibility drugs and muscle relaxants. Every drink and every piece of food in my house is laced with it, I built up an immunity to it ten years ago. You won't even remember this conversation took place later, or anything after you drank a sip of that drink until you leave with memories I've implanted. Did you know that Jade first made contact with me when I was aged sixteen in 1987? Twenty years is a long time to learn the ropes well, whoever you really are. Now, what's your _real_ name?" asked Hannah, sitting back as though everything was in hand-and it was, the horrified Sydney realised. She couldn't move, couldn't even speak of her own free will. She could feel control of her own actions slipping away as blackness threatened to engulf her completely.

It took an awful effort of will to do what she did next, later she wouldn't even understand how she _could_ have done it. Even though it was only the act of speaking aloud three words, a name of all things.

"Julia Catherine Thorne" she managed, slowly but surely, as even her own voice threatened to betray her. She could only hope that it would be enough.

She would never remember what happened next.

_APO_

"He's definitely unable to function? At all? Yes, I see that it could happen, but I've never believed in coincidence and the timing cannot be chance in a situation like this. The issue here is that I sent you and Dixon to Vietnam and I know nothing passed outside of APO, so either we have a leak or a mole if this _is_ an attack of some sort. If not? The meeting can't be easily rescheduled, Ambassador Frost has a schedule to keep and if he starts to move things around certain people will notice and ask the wrong questions. I need you to continue the mission in Dixon's place and get the information we require" said Sloane, leaning back in his chair as he ran the first of a number of possible scenarios through his mind.

If there was any one thing he was ultimately a master at, it was seeing every possible angle in any imaginable situation, as well as unimaginable situations, plenty of which he and Jack had lived through which only the two of them knew the full details of. Every way he looked at this, though, made him consider more strongly the option of pulling Nadia, his daughter, out. If APO's security had somehow been breached? It was possible none of them were safe anywhere. He'd have to take steps to correct the situation and determine whether or not his suspicions were correct.

"_Understood. What do you want me to do about Dixon? There is a strong possibility his safety can't be guaranteed in his current location given what may have already_ _been an attempt on his life inside the Embassy Security perimeter_" replied Nadia, her voice clear if almost strangely quiet coming in via the secure line.

"Do nothing, I'll deal with matters from this end, the mission is of paramount importance. I'm sending Weiss to you for Backup, he'll be with you before the end of the day. Be careful, I've been at this too long not to sense when something's wrong and were missing something significant here. Get what we need and come back to APO as quickly as possible, that's an Order" Sloane continued, already planning out how to determine whether or not APO was breached. He could have used Jack's help, ever the master strategist, but almost forty years in their particular "business" had taught him some tricks that would get the job done. He'd make do with the injured Vaughn and Marshall-Marshall, who had never understood just how valuable he and his skills really were...

"_I will...Dad. Out_" replied Nadia, before signing off. He actually managed a genuine smile at that. His little girl, all grown up... Just when he'd finally reached the point that he had nothing left to loose to life, he'd been given her, the daughter he'd never known he had, back. He sometimes wondered just what his Wife would have said if she'd lived to see this day..?

A darker thought crossed his mind at that, one that even Nadia's bright smile and her arms around him could never quite banish. Was it enough, was _she_ enough, after it all, everything he'd seen and done? With the death of his Wife severing him from so much of what little he'd had left to cling to? Rambaldi had been the only name left in his mind until he'd gone to see Conrad and learnt the truth of his past, but what had been his first action on meeting that very same unknown daughter? He'd tortured her, for the sake of more knowledge of Rambaldi and his works. What did that make him? _Who_ did that make him?

Did his family have first call on whatever was left of him outside of his obsession? Or was his obsession all he really had left?

Worst of all, how was he going to finally answer the question for certain and find out? When Rambaldi was involved in anything people died, he should know. But this time? Was it going to cost him everything he had left? Or was it just the last step, a final price to pay he faced on a road, leading to an unknown destination, that had been his eventual destination no matter what for over thirty years?

He'd never believed in God or Fate, his father had seen to that when he'd been a child and alcoholic rages had left him so demented with rage he'd attacked anything within reach and torn it to pieces, or shattered anything hard enough to break. The day he'd finally lost his mind and burnt his own house down while his son stood outside and watched still echoed in Sloane's mind as the day he'd taken the first step on the road to the man he'd become now. His mother had left years before, fleeing her husband's violence with characteristic weakness, so he'd had no need of her either. When he'd later discovered she'd died in a Squat with a needle in her arm and something hideous in what was left of her ruined body, he hadn't even bothered to re-read the newspaper article to make sure he got all of the details. His parents just didn't matter to him, never had.

What did that make Nadia, with a man like him for a father and a mother like Irina Derevko? He could have asked the same question of Sydney, with the same mother but with Jack Bristow as a father, only he'd have received the same answer: truth takes time. Almost thirty years on maybe he'd get his answer one day soon, about both women? He might have known Sydney since she was born, but to his thinking their association had only really started when Jack had used Project: Christmas on Sydney as a child to program her with the skills of a Spy as a child, at the age of six. He still didn't know enough about Nadia to tell if she'd been subjected to anything similar, but he would find out. For now, that would have to be enough.

He pressed the Intercom to summon Marshall. There was work to do.

_Outer Mongolia_

The mountainside was cold, grey and stark, patches of thin greenery providing occasional flashes of colour amongst grey stone and black gutted holes in the rock carved by weather and, occasionally, human hand. Paths were unknown this far up in the mountains, one either knew the way or did not. Ice commonly formed on roofs, walls and windows, even on the inside, shelter was at best scarce. Heat was almost an unknown, even animals only living wild avoided places like it as the cold became a living thing at nights and the darkness brought out terrors forgotten since before humanity had learnt how to paint on stone. The land was dead, cold and best forgotten, even the few hardy natives who occasionally had cause to venture into the mountains would tell anyone who asked that. What they wouldn't say was _what_ made them so afraid of this particular area-or, rather, _who_.

The three people who lived in a small stone house built of slabs of rock manhandled into position despite the fact they should have taken six grown men to shift, one even driven tight atop four others to form a roof, knew all the answers. They _were_ the answers-and they intended to keep it that way. With hand-carved slits clearly created using only stone tools forming slit windows, two to each wall, a small doorway being sealed by a boulder rolled across from the inside, the small building was camouflaged from even satellites since the stone was deliberately so thick heat signatures would not show up beneath it. Worked designs cut laboriously into the entire structure melted it into the mountainside so perfectly an expert tracker could only have found it by accident-and anyone who did would never have lived to tell the tale.

That was what made the sound of helicopter engines approaching the house enough of an anomaly to draw all three of the occupants out to see what was coming, both men and the woman. Despite the oddity of their location, none of them would have seemed particularly out of place given just how out of the way they were. In fact, there seemed nothing remarkable about them at all.

The woman stepped out in front of the two men, looking out into the cloudy, if sunny, sky, squinting against the flashes of sun, looking for the trace she knew would be there. Jet black hair was roughly cut to the base of her skull, while strange pale eyes which almost appeared silver glinted sharply in the sunlight. Just over five feet tall, rough pale clothes surrounded her body, dirt covered her skin and almost disguised her face, taking away from what appeared to be strikingly unusual features with slanted eyes, high firm cheekbones and a strong, handsome rather than beautiful face than somehow seemed almost _too _sharp-featured. Despite the loose, ragged clothes hard musculature was barely disguised, of very exceptional development.

Just over forty years old, the woman looked as though she could have more than matched any ten women twenty years younger than her in any physical challenge and won without difficulty. With a solid, sure stride, an uncanny ease and grace of movement and an odd aura when looked at closely, guessing who and what she was was something best avoided by anyone who met her. She never took that long to prove it. Catching a sudden flash with sharp eyes, she turned sharply and communicated her Orders to both men without a word, both merely nodding before running off in opposite directions away from her into the rocks.

One man was six and a half feet tall with a barrel physique of wrestlers muscle to match, hard features almost set in stone that gave away nothing featuring a broken nose that had been badly set and healed out of place years ago. Big-boned and physically massive in the way a bear was when first set eyes on by terrified prey, even wearing only worn old brown boots and ragged black leggings he still exuded a physical presence which could make anyone take a step back, especially when huge hands that clenched into massive fists were taken in as well. Black-ink tattoos of every description covered his torso, arms and neck, but one in particular stood out. A double-headed bloody red eagle seemingly carved over his heart into his chest, the only colour evident against his otherwise pale skin bar his pale blue eyes and blond hair.

The temperatures in the area were always zero or below, but he didn't even breath hard as he disappeared into rough cover with a physical grace that defied his massive size. He looked the woman's age, but his eyes were decades older.

The second man was a foot shorter and half the weight, but his chest, forearms and back to a lesser extent were covered in the pale scars only a man who had fought with knives his entire life would ever have. He didn't move so much as flow from place to place, he seemed to see around corners as he never put a foot wrong or lifted his eyes and his physical movements were so flawlessly arranged that even to register him moving took real effort. Ice-grey eyes shone in a bald head even as he simply fell into the darkness and out of the sunlight with an ease that defied description, his skills evidently unaffected by his age, the same as the other two.

Both men were long gone from sight or sound when the small black helicopter broke cloud cover and came down from height directly towards the small house. Stealth Helicopter, the woman identified it as, not a design she knew but she was familiar with basics of Stealth tech and she could fly anything. Somebody had gone to a great deal of trouble to make sure nobody knew about their trip here. She wanted to meet them already, it was always better to get to know your prey before the light finally died in their eyes as their body gave out and you had to get rid of whatever was left.

The ledge the house stood on wasn't broad enough for even the small helicopter to land on, so it didn't try. It turned side on and a door was opened, five rappelling lines were thrown out and five figures quickly and smoothly came down to the ground before setting foot on solid stone and unclipping themselves. Four of the five immediately unslung automatic rifles and took the safeties off audibly, although they were careful to only aim at the surrounding area or the ground. The fifth, armed with only a handgun and belt knife, just stood staring at the woman staring at them for several long seconds, then reached up and removed her helmet.

All five were wearing jet black combat gear, thermals and full body armour, all five carried themselves like professional soldiers who had seen combat and truly did know what they were doing. None of that mattered, at all. The one who removed her helmet first, the woman's eyes immediately identified her as female from body language, let a tight ponytail spill out from under her helmet, which came free to reveal a young beauty added to by soft brown hair and doe-brown eyes. The woman was barely over thirty, but she was clearly a professional. No doubt there was plenty to be dug out about that particular choice of way...

The woman's eyes noted a heavy bruise on one side of the soldiers face, almost covered by make-up, noting at the same time that the soldiers jaw had clearly been set recently. Signs of very recent violence, intriguing.

"Lia Zheng-Mai?" asked the soldier woman aloud, looking the other woman straight in the eyes even as the helicopter banked away and flew off to land somewhere nearby. It took real courage to do that-and no small level of insanity, given the viper's nest that lived behind her eyes.

"If you know who I am, then you know what I was. You also know I prefer my real name. _Silver_" replied Lia, looking at the other woman in a very particular way.

"My apologies, our research did not suggest that. My name is Kelly Peyton, I represent an organisation that would be interested in developing use of your...services" replied the soldier woman, still holding Lia's eyes.

"They would be, but you didn't answer my question" replied Lia, a facsimile of a smile on her face. She was good at pretending when it was called for, she hadn't been caught out in thirty years. Kelly didn't spot the difference either.

"No. You are all former assets of Project: Perfect Dark. Project initiated by the KGB on direct Orders from Chairman Khrushchev in 1967, developed as an Espionage and Deep Black counterintelligence Unit 1,000 strong designed to deal with NATO countries and others staging armed infiltration of Soviet or allied territory via Covert means by whatever measures necessary, as well as Overt threats if required. First deployed as a unit in 1985, Afghanistan as part of Operation: Nightlight. Records of the Perfect Dark operation and its Agents activities" said Kelly, a sharp smile briefly lighting up her face, "sealed until 2085 by Standing Order of the Red Room foundation committee. Impressively enough, even my employers couldn't get past that. Used around the world until 1991, when the Project was shut down and all Assets Ordered terminated. Yet here you are. Do you want me to go on?" asked Kelly, with a hard stare at Lia.

"You should stop now, because three quarters of everything you've read is a lie and I was involved in writing the rest. Did you not research that I was a Unit commander? Perfect Dark was split into four fire teams 250 strong each, sub-divided down into single-Agent units if necessary, any formation or organisation could be adapted to as Ordered, a necessity when you were the part of the hand nobody pays attention to because the near one holds up the flag. In any case, all us were made, mot mentored, mothered or taught, from when we were born all we knew was what had to be done and how we were to do it. You don't know any of us and you never will. As for what happens next, that depends on how you ask and what you want done. Make my day" replied Lia, her eyes hard and cold as deep-frozen Arctic ice. Kelly, she could tell, was finding it increasingly hard to meet her eyes. What a surprise.

"We are willing to pay ten million a head, with a bonus of double that, a year for good work, yours more particularly. We have...concerns about certain...groups and...individuals who may be of issue, which might require a particular solution in the fullness of time. We have no doubt at all that you and your men could deal with any issues that might arise, beyond which we could offer you...other compensations if so required, or even desired. My employers are powerful, wealthy-and very private, with a wish to retain all three factors until very particular events come into place and extremely particular individuals are correctly met by specific circumstances. If you are interested, that is?" asked Peyton, still looking Lia in the eyes.

Lia's answering slow smile was no more genuine than any other expression that was ever seen on her face. Nobody ever knew what went through her mind, that was how she liked it. She would admit, though, the young woman knew how to toss out a good bait line. She wondered how Kelly would react when she discovered that she'd hooked sharks for her employers?

"Young lady, you have my attention..." replied Lia, slowly...

/End of Chapter 15. All Reviews welcomed./


	17. Chapter 17

For all disclaimers: see earlier parts.

All Reviews welcomed.

**The Last Day **

_New Delhi, India, 1999_

Marcus Dixon had never felt comfortable in a suit after over twenty years in the Marines. But, given what his profession had been since Jack Bristow had recruited him into SD-6 in 1990, he had made a point of learning to cover up the discomfort and relax into the finest material available with the skill of a top Lawyer in Wall Street, who knew it would all lead to millions more in his bank account at the end.

In reality, that was his way of convincing himself he was still making a difference even without the uniform of a soldier and a gun in his hand. He knew that, he really did, but sometimes he tried to forget it. After all, the ability to blend in was at least as important as the ability to shoot straight and break bones if necessary now he was a Spook, so carrying himself like a professional soldier when he was meant to be a businessman who had never gotten past the shooting range with a gun would have caused...trouble. _Who_ you were and _what_ you were mattered above and beyond anything else on this job, because you had to be able to hide in someone else's skin to get the job done if necessary. Fortunately he was, while far from a pathological liar, very good at keeping secrets, even from his Wife, so it had turned out he had a natural talent for the job.

Facts like that were particularly important on missions like this. He was seated at the corner table in a high-class Restaurant-for New Delhi's mid-to-rich quarter, anyway-awaiting his Contact, who was due at 21:55 precisely, ten minutes from now, to take delivery of the Intel gathered on K-Directorate's infiltration of Indian Military Intelligence. What K-Directorate was doing infiltrating Indian intelligence circles he didn't know, but his mission was part of on-going efforts to find out by SD-6.

Jack Bristow had suggested that it was possibly connected to attempts to tap into 60 year old intelligence files the Indian Government wasn't supposed to still have, somehow concealed and held secure since the days of the British-ruled Raj. All connected to Stalin's search for Rambaldi and his artefacts in the 40's and 50's, right through to Stalin's death in 1953. He wouldn't go into specifics as to why he suspected this, but made clear that if they were looking for what SD-6 believed they were it was better the documents be destroyed than K-Directorate use them to find what they wanted. Dixon was to confirm what was occurring or not, after which a Tactical Team would deal with the rest, one way or another.

Sitting back in his expensive grey suit, red tie and white shirt, thick black hair neatly parted and swept over his head like some city yuppie, he'd kept and even enhanced his natural American accent to make him seem even more like some slick businessman here for some quick, exotic thrills of the illicit kind who had money to burn and time to spend. He slouched into his chair to help disguise his trim, hard-muscled physique, kept from making eye contact with anyone so they wouldn't notice how his eyes were never still, always monitoring, cataloguing, moving. He shot glances which were full of arrogance and utterly lacking in charm at anyone who tried to approach him, which kept everyone away. Exactly the effect he aimed for.

The room was only twenty feet wide and thirty long, with the roof a bare ten feet above them. It had a main entrance, two broad front windows covered with deep, dark red drapes at night, a kitchen entrance which had another external entrance-he'd checked. There was a bar where an expert barman, a young man with a thick moustache and hair that highlighted his smooth face, above a red sleeveless jacket, black trousers, shoes and pale white shirt, the Restaurant uniform, juggled bottles, spun glasses around in his hands and never failed to deliver exactly what was required. There was also a broad stage where, at any time, at least one female dancer would be displaying herself. The walls were painted a dark caramel, the ceiling a pale creamy white, while the floor was simply fitted wooden boards overlaid with a perfectly-fitted soft earthy-brown carpet, candles doing as much to light the room as the deliberately-dim electrical lights.

He was in position, he'd scanned the bar and determined the lack of hostiles, he was ready and waiting with the concealed radio button worked into his shirt collar ready to give the "Go" signal the moment he received information confirming his mission-or not, if he didn't. All he needed was his Contact.

That was why he was almost startled when he turned his head back to the chair across from him and found a young woman wearing a crimson Sari sitting in it. He hadn't heard or glimpsed anything at all, his instincts hadn't warned him of another's presence-very nearly a first. Who was she and how had she managed to surprise him?

He took a closer look at her. Long lightning-black hair swept off of her head away and down to her left in a long, silken wave, full red lips of the kind which drew the eye before anything else on the face despite her exotic-no, _exquisite_ Rajput-Princess beauty, fines bones highlighting dark-tinged Caramel skin with a bloody red Bindi dot on her forehead. Her loose-fitting Sari didn't disguise hard-muscled long limbs or a natural grace and elegance just her slight movements illustrated to his practised eye. Then he made the mistake of meeting her eyes, shards of amber highlighting her face...

She had eyes which could cut, edges of madness barely hidden behind the incredible gleam of both a brilliant intelligence and a savage natural ferocity. He glimpsed a darkness inside her that was almost swallowed by a massive lust for blood, but looked away sharply as he realised that he was locking eyes with a predator in the truest sense of the word. He'd dealt with plenty of monsters in his time, one thing you learned early on if you wanted to remain sane was who you could use and who you had to kill. She'd kill him if he didn't kill her, of that he had no doubt.

"Ashwariya, no surname, sometimes known as the Red Fox. I'm your dinner date. You should read the menu again, I understand that you haven't tried a lot of what's on offer" said Aishwariya, sliding a light brown A4 size booklet which exactly resembled a real Menu across the table to him. She hadn't walked in carrying it and he hadn't seen where she'd gotten it from, but he knew the drill. He opened it enough to read the second page and saw the paperwork he needed, along with a flat and plastic-packed CD-Rom disk. He shut the Menu.

"Your right, but I've lost my appetite for the moment after thinking about that, I should have a stiff drink and come back later, thanks for the tip" said Dixon, before starting to rise-Ashwariya double-tapped her middle finger on the table suddenly and glanced down at his seat, a clear message to sit down. He did, with a frown. This wasn't something he'd been briefed to expect, his was an in-and-out job done mission where the Tactical Team was to do the groundwork, he was just Intel. What, exactly, was happening here?

"I don't know your real name and it doesn't matter, "Old Man". What _does_ matter is the fact I was paid to get that information to SD-6 and that won't happen if your dead, so listen. Closely" began Ashwariya, carefully looking at anything but his face.

He tensed automatically, was she saying she'd been followed here and their lives were in danger? Idiot woman, after the trouble he'd gone to to get here unseen-his train of thought abruptly derailed at her next words, though.

"Your Tactical Team was blown this morning in their Safe House, the less said the better about how and where in a public place. I can give you names and descriptions, but it's better I leave it like this: their Commander was taken alive seriously wounded, but he didn't crack under interrogation, which is the only reason you are still alive. Three men, two women and the Commander are all now dead. You have no Backup coming because they didn't get off a panic signal, also because they have to miss three Check-In's before a recon mission will be launched to ascertain the situation. That gives you six hours, in which time they will have found you and separated you from anything useful, including however long you might have left to live. Do you want me to go on?" asked Ashwariya, raising an elegant eyebrow.

"No, I want to ask you a question" replied Dixon, pausing to let what she'd said sink in and decide if she was telling the truth. It wasn't impossible, that was what worried him. It would, in fact, be most likely probable if there had been a breach in security somewhere along the line of communications. It hadn't been from him, of course, he'd gone dark immediately after going Undercover to meet the Contact-and she'd cleared that hurdle with the "Red Fox" and the disguised Dossier, which he'd been expressly Ordered to confirm due to the nature of the mission.

Going up against an entire countries Intelligence apparatus wasn't something even SD-6 did lightly, with good reason. For all their secrecy, SD-1 through SD-12 were not unknown organisations in certain circles-nor were they tolerated. If Russian intelligence had gotten wind of his mission somehow, then K-Directorate could have. If _they'd_ gotten that far and a simple signal breach had let them take down the Tactical Team...

"Why do you care what happens to the information and me? You'll get paid regardless" he asked, finally. He could feel the edges of his mission collapsing in around him even as he spoke. There was no good reason for a confirmed Asset to tell him all of this unless she wanted to kill him herself-and he'd already be dead if that was the case. No, she was telling the truth because he knew a true Predator when he saw one, a killer of the highest order. She was telling him the truth because she wanted something for it.

"What can I say? It's a good day" said Ashwariya, with a strange chuckle, a look on her face that Dixon couldn't begin to decipher or understand...

_Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 2007, two days ago_

Ashwariya had, afterwards, Dixon would never forget, gotten him first out of the city and then out of the country. To get him out of the city, she'd dealt with no less than three "Watchers" he hadn't even spotted-proving the fact with each mans eyes, as she held them in front of his face in the palm of her hand. She'd led him to a partially collapsed building which, it turned out, had partially collapsed into the ground, providing a hidden hiding space one couldn't find unless you knew where to look. She'd told him to stay there, she'd be back in two hours, then gone hunting. After she'd returned, she'd been driving a Limo and wearing a Chauffeurs uniform.

He hadn't asked, just gotten in. An hour after that he was out of the country, en route to an SD-6 Safe House in Italy for debriefing after a Flash Traffic message to SD-6 allowed them to confirm the Tactical Team was down, the mission blow-so it had been passed off to another team who'd finished the job. Before they'd parted, he'd asked Ashwariya just what she meant by "It's a good day?"

She just said "Ask me again on a bad one", blown him a kiss and disappeared without trace. Unable to leave it at that, he'd looked into her using SD-6 resources-and what he'd found had left him watching his back for years afterwards.

Well above genius level, with a tested IQ of 280, Ashwariya Nevata had been born in a village with no name in southern India in 1971. She was the result of her fathers Rape of her mother, making her an Untouchable who had grown up on the streets, which explained her almost feral nature, sharp mind and ability to slide past his old soldiers instincts, but that wasn't even close to the whole of it.

As a child, unable to look after or defend herself, she'd been bounced between a father who could not stand his daughters intelligence and took every opportunity to physically remind of her of the fact, which had cost her physical and mental scars Dixon couldn't even begin to imagine. By all accounts he'd even tortured her and locked her in a dark basement for days on end, as well as worse. Her mother had swung from one extreme to another, trying to care for a daughter she evidently loathed the sight of but wouldn't abandon, treating Ashwariya with a combination of half-hearted tenderness at one point and hellish fury the next. The physical abuse had hardened her physically, clearly, but what had happened to her mind was less easy to define.

Taken in by a Red Cross worker after both of her parents died following a House fire when Ashwariya was twelve, she'd been diagnosed as suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder as a result of the abuse. It was the wrong diagnosis, especially since it took her to the USA for Psychiatric help by the Red Cross worker, who had clearly become far too attached to the seemingly helpless damaged young girl. After she'd put three grown men in hospital when they tried to sedate her, the correct diagnosis of a Psychotic Break made worse by extreme Paranoia and borderline Schizophrenia only intensified by her extraordinary minds ability to understand and imagine things had been made. She'd spent three years in a padded cell, straitjacketed and sedated all of the time, before she'd escaped after an Orderly failed to give her medication in time. He'd been the first man she'd ever killed.

The rest was lost in murky urban myth and rumour, but he'd been able to establish she'd spent time as a Pit Fighter, Mercenary, Assassin and half-dozen other "professions" for certain. Everybody who'd been willing to go on the record about her and knew her said two things: if you want the impossible done, easily, hire her. Also, never, ever, try and be her friend. He'd been her friend, or he thought he'd been, which kept him awake nights staring into every shadow for weeks afterwards.

All of that was why hers was the last voice he ever wanted to hear when he woke up. When he opened his eyes, fighting against waves of pain and extreme discomfort, to see her dressed as a Doctor by the side of his bed, his heart almost stopped. He just managed to speak, somehow.

"What do we have to talk about?" he muttered through a dry mouth around a thick tongue. He did _not_ like the look in her eyes...

"I'm in love with you" she said, very simply. Then, with the same simple elegance and ease she did everything with, she drew a silver knife from a hidden sheath inside her left forearm and, without hesitation, stabbed him in the heart.

/End of Chapter 16. All Reviews welcomed./


	18. Chapter 18

Legal disclaimers: see earlier parts.

Disclaimers: see earlier parts. However, apologies for failure to properly update this story in a long time. Life got on top of me in a big, bad way and I'm only just getting back to old habits. Hope that you find this worth the wait. Oh, as for Dixon? Wait and see…

**The Last Day**

_Los Angeles, 2007, two days ago_

Sydney's first thought on regaining some semblance of consciousness was that, oddly, her right hand hurt like hell. Her second was that her lips felt...bruised, as though she'd either been punched in the face or been passionately kissing Vaughn and gotten carried away. Some of her floating ribs on her lower left side hurt like she'd taken a very sharp kick there, not broken but so sore that it felt as though she'd been hit with steel-toed boots. Her third thought suddenly woke her up-she could feel still warm blood running down her right hand from her knuckles to her fingertips, she could taste it around her mouth with her tongue, she knew it wasn't hers even though she couldn't have said how...

Her eyes snapped open so fast that for a long moment she couldn't see, even as it registered she was sitting up. She was lying on a bed, sitting up, cool air moving around the room drying the warm sweat on her bare skin as she just sat still. Her eyes began to focus even as her waking mind took in the facts, showing her a glimpse of a richly appointed bedroom. _Hannah Corvay's _bedroom, now she remembered-which drove home the fact there was a massive gap in her memory. How could she not know where she was or how she'd gotten there, even after just waking up? That just wasn't the way her mind worked-?!

She was nude, seated atop bedclothes, with moving air tracing the fine hairs on her skin even as it shifted her long, loose hair about her as it scattered around her shoulders, back and chest. There was blood around her mouth, on one hand, which felt heavily bruised...this was getting surreal. What had happened? What _was_ happening here?

Her eyes finally cleared and focused, even as she realised that she wished she'd never opened her eyes at all as she glimpsed what she'd been missing from the start. A thick trail of red, human blood led off the far end of the bed from where she was sitting, so much that there was no way it could be an accident combat-trained and experienced eyes informed her. Beyond that-she could just make out an outstretched hand and part of an arm, a woman's. The hand and arm of a woman who wasn't moving at all...

Sydney, for all of her training and experience in self-control, being cool-headed, logical and separating herself from her emotions, felt herself starting to shake. Scrabbling her way off of the bed to her left, away from the covered window, she spotted some of her clothes-her jacket and trousers were thrown aside nearby-grabbed them, threw them on in almost desperate haste, so fast they were barely decent when done, then slowly crawled over to the unmoving woman. She had to stop when she got a good look, it was worse than she'd imagined-even worse than that, if fact, was the fact that she had to be responsible, herself, for what had happened.

Hannah Corvay was a bloody, beaten wreck on the floor. Her hands had been tied behind her back with wire torn from a lamps power cord, her feet were tied together the same way and attached to both bedposts by extensions of the wire. The wire had been drawn so close in that it had drawn blood, heavy bruising swelling up already around the affected areas. Her jaw was clearly broken and misshapen, her lips mangled and even torn-her lower one even deeply bitten, which answered that question, both of them in fact, even as a slow but steady drip of blood issued from the corner of her mouth. Corvays eyes were swelling up as well, a deep gash across her forehead flooding her eyes with blood while heavy purple and black bruising had left her effectively blind.

Corvay was wearing the tattered remains of a light green dressing gown, one which was soaked in blood, so much of her body exposed her clothes were better described as the tattered remains of rags she was almost wearing. Bruising was evident up and down her slim, hard-muscled body, already coming out in deep, dark shades of black, yellow and purple. She'd clearly been kicked off of the bed with such force, after what looked like a truly, viciously violent interrogation, that she'd been knocked unconscious before she landed and come down in such an awkward, twisted posture that Sydney was surprised the pain she had to be suffering from hadn't woken her up howling already-the fact it hadn't said plenty about just how badly hurt she was.

Sydney just stared at the battered, barely breathing woman for so long that she thought she was having a nightmare she couldn't wake up from, then she simply fell to the floor backside first with such a thud she heard it as much as felt it. She felt a tear tracking down her left cheek as something broke inside her and only the shock she was feeling prevented her from screaming aloud. She _knew_ she'd done this, even though she couldn't remember any part of it, she could feel the tension in her muscles from the acts she'd carried out, sense rather than remember the awful thud and crack impacts of her fists splitting and tearing flesh, breaking bone...

She'd done this. She'd done this. _She'd_ done this. She was incapable of acts like this and _she'd done this_. Carried out an almost-lethal interrogation of a woman who probably didn't deserve to die so brutally Sloane would have been impressed-

Thinking of Sloane forced her back to the present. For some reason her mobile was on the bed, clear of the blood. Trying to think it through, she checked messages-nothing. Then, on impulse, she checked who she'd last called and when-and got an awful surprise.

APO. She'd called APO ten minutes ago and had no idea who she'd spoken to, what she'd said or if she'd told anyone what had happened in this place. Someone could be on their way to her location /right now/-

She finally realised what it was she'd been seeing and been desperately trying to ignore since she'd come too. There was a stand-mounted high-tech video camera ten feet away from the bed, the red "Record" light still on. Whatever had happened here, everything she'd said and done, it had all been recorded-possibly transmitted to somewhere and someone else as well. She hurried over and a quick examination revealed that the camera was a tape recorder and nothing more-but that still left her with the tape to worry and think about.

Did she want to watch whatever was on the tape? _Could_ she? Maybe...maybe _not_.

_APO_

Sloane's phone rang for the second time in ten minutes, his Caller ID telling him it was the same person for a second time. Odd, she'd only just filled him in. What could even Sydney have discovered in that short a time? Or, just as possibly, was it something else again?

"Yes, Sydney?" he said, picking up the phone and resisting the temptation to ask whether or not she was alright. When he'd spoken to her before, she'd seemed...off, somehow, that was the only way he could describe her and make sense. He'd rarely heard her use that liquid, seductive voice she could pour into the ear like honey into the mouth if she wanted to, never when she wasn't on the job. He'd had no idea at all where the slightest hint of what a very informed ear told him was a trace of an Italian accent came from when she'd spoken. It had been as though she'd been trying to suppress an Italian accent in favour of her normal American one, even though her natural accent was distinctly strong USA with a flavouring of LA dialect, given that she'd lived there her whole life?

"_...Help me..._" came Sydney's voice, so softly and quietly he barely heard her. His face and eyes betrayed nothing of what he was thinking, of course, but on the inside his eyebrows were climbing up into his hairline. The Sydney Bristow he knew would /never/ ask for help, certainly not from him. She'd sooner handle everything herself, which she was exceptionally capable of doing. If not, she'd call her father or Vaughn, Nadia, maybe even Marshall depending on just what the problem was. Not ever him, Sloane, never when beginning with those words...

"Sydney, what's happened? Tell me slowly, simply and carefully. Be careful that I only hear what is vital" he replied, glancing up once to make sure that his office door was secure and sealed. He threw a concealed switch on his computer console to lock out anyone else using the APO switchboard so it was impossible to both track his current call and listen in. To lock the door too would have drawn the wrong kind of attention at the wrong time.

"_...Something's happened, at the address you sent me to...I can't say more, it's just...wrong. Please, come here now. Don't bring anybody_" said Sydney, slowly, reluctantly, as though she was having trouble getting the words out at all.

That was even worse. He'd known Sydney her entire life, even spent most of a year effectively raising and looking after her with his Wife, Emily, after Jack briefly went to prison and then nearly lost his mind after Irina Derevko-or, then, Laura Bristow's- "death". He'd gotten to know her well as an adult after all the time she'd spent working at SD-6, in fact he suspected in some ways he'd come to know Sydney better than her emotionally damaged, distant father did, let alone her Psychopath of a mother. That meant that when he was sure she didn't do certain things, he could be certain he was right-and Sydney Bristow never, ever asked for something using the word "Please" on the job. Something was _**very**_ wrong here.

"I'll be there in ten minutes. Do nothing, speak to nobody else, do not disturb anything you haven't already. Wait for me" said Sloane, even as he snatched up his car keys from a locked desk drawer, made sure his pistol was loaded and solid in its holster and swept a long dark grey overcoat around his shoulders which fell to his ankles. He reassigned command priorities temporarily to Vaughn, as the next most senior agent left in the office, since he wasn't sure how long he'd be-and for Sydney, he had as long as she needed, no matter what she believed of him.

Gaining a daughter had changed him in ways he was still coming to terms with, but one thing he knew: where a child of yours was concerned, you did whatever it took and crossed every line you had to to keep them safe, something he realised now had kept Jack sane after everything over all these years. Jack had invested everything he had left in his daughters life, health and success after his Wife's utter betrayal, that was the "obsession" he suffered from which had kept him safe from Rambaldi for all those years they'd worked together and afterwards. If he'd had Jacks bedrock to believe in and protect, no matter what, when he'd been a young man? He sometimes believed that things could have been different. He doubted it now, though, he was too old, bitter and twisted to really change. That didn't mean he wouldn't and couldn't try, he _was_ trying, but only time would tell...

_Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam_

Nadia, as a Diplomatic Attaché, was able to fill in for her ill "Boss", Marcus Dixon", as and when required according to Protocol. In a situation ruled by very specific guidelines she was able to be temporarily granted access to the Ambassador via her superiors Clearance, which was the case now. That was what had put her in the Ambassadors car, an armoured limo, opposite him in a carefully arranged smart suit with her tied up and swept back to make her appear the consummate professional. Like Dixon had pointed out earlier she was young for the job, but like her father had said sometimes you had to let Politics do the work for you.

That meant, quite simply, that the new wave of political correctness was how the woman Nadia was currently had been swept to so senior a post while still in her twenties. This, even though it was very likely she was both far too lacking in the right kind of experience for the post and unsuitable due to the fact most cultures on the planet still treated women as a decidedly inferior part of the species at very best. She wasn't sure if she was being sexist or not in despising the arrogance of people who didn't think women could do the job just as well as men under the same circumstances, regardless of every argument to the contrary. Of course, the way her father had so expertly planted her in this position made her own arguments for equality harder to accept. The wily old man had known exactly what he was doing, after all...

The limo was part of a convoy of vehicles, including other civilian vehicles carrying Embassy staff and military vehicles carrying an armed escort, which were heading to the airport to meet a very senior member of the Diplomatic hierarchy direct from Washington who was arriving to meet and sweet talk the Vietnamese Prime Minister. The reason was very simple, again. More trouble over recovering the remains of War-era US troops, which Nadia understood had been found in a remote valley where they had evidently made a last stand against attacking Vietcong troops who had proceeded to slaughter them to a man after a running battle which had to have taken hours given the amount of damage to the greenery all around, which was still recovering from it.

The problem which had kept them from simply being recovered like others were more complicated, though, hence the Diplomatic moves at high levels. Rumours were going around-and Nadia only knew a little more, despite her access to the CIA's own Intel via APO's systems-that the deaths of these particular US soldiers hadn't stopped the slaughter. _Things_ had...happened to the dead soldiers after they'd fallen, bad things. Most likely, she suspected, the Vietnamese Government wanted a cast-iron guarantee of no consequences if such obvious evidence of War Crimes was ever to be returned to the USA.

It all made her glad, again and again, that she was originally from Argentina, even though her father was American and her mother Russian. She had real trouble understanding just how the US Government had managed to be so stupid over the years, sometimes. Not that she was naive enough to believe that she knew anything close to the full picture, of course...

She pulled her attention back to the present, focusing on why she was here. She could think deep thoughts when she had the time, which she didn't now. She looked coolly at the Ambassador even as the limo started driving towards the Embassy gate, then turned to look at the other passenger in the limo, all of them secured from the driver by a privacy screen.

A man in his late fifties, with thinning grey hair and moustache, light-brown eyes highlighted by the natural slant of eye common to all Vietnam natives. He was carrying too much weight, but not to the point of excess. His cheeks bulged and were strangely red, his hands weak-looking and fingers slim, not a soldiers hands from what she could see, oddly. He was wearing the uniform of a General of the Vietnamese army, however-and Nadia had no doubt that was, most importantly, exactly what he was.

"Helena Santi, may I introduce you to Arko Kaian Mai, Veteran of the War and a man who has had an obsession with tracking Jade down for almost thirty years now..." began Ambassador Frost. Nadia couldn't help but think that the man's self-control slipped for just a second at mention of Jades names to reveal a level of anger that bordered very closely on madness in his eyes. Jut what was the old Assassin to this man...?

_LA_

Sydney didn't know what her almost panicked call to Sloane at APO would lead him to think had happened to her, but she didn't honestly care. She needed help and, with her father out of the picture at best temporarily, there was only one person left she could go to who she was absolutely sure would ask no questions.

Nadia, she'd have gone to without hesitation, but she was on a different continent. Dixon...he'd have covered for her and not ever blinked or questioned, but he was, deep down, a truly honest, honourable man. She wouldn't ask him to keep a secret like this from people close to him. Vaughn...asides from his injuries, there was some part of her that never wanted him to know she was capable of anything like this, even literally out of her mind. Marshall was sweet, reliable, trustworthy, she'd trust him with her life without hesitation-but he just wasn't built to deal with anything as ugly as this. Weiss? Too much like Vaughn, but with less of the steel-lined stomach and the hard, cold edge in thinking and action that made Vaughn who he was. If anything, Weiss was simply too easy-going in nature to handle anything like this, especially when it involved her.

Her father would have made it all go away without pause and turned up the next day as though nothing could ever have happened, his face as expressionless as ever, his eyes chips of arctic ice hiding his thoughts and reflecting others enquiries with disturbing ease. She sometimes wondered whether or not her father was entirely sane after everything he'd been through over the years, but _what_ever he was, _who_ever he was, he'd walk into Hellfire with his eyes open and wrestle God out of Heaven to protect her if he had to, then go on to do it again the next day, again and again until everyone was dead or she was finally safe.

The insanity of this simply didn't bother him, she was well aware. Until she and her father were the only two people left alive on the planet she could _never_ be ultimately safe-but that wouldn't stop him. Nothing would, unless he was dead-and even then he'd find a way to take a long list of her enemies down with him, just in case, she knew. She'd never told him the truth, never would, but her father, Jack Bristow, was the most terrifying man she'd ever met. Of course, her mother was the most terrifying woman she'd ever met, so evidently it ran in the family.

Sloane was a different matter to anyone else, though. He was so buried in and layered by secrets, lies, hatred and obsession that she didn't doubt she'd never know the truth of the man, if he himself even did. Maybe her father had, once, but the man her father had known for so many years had died decades ago now in reality. His obsession had killed him on the inside, burnt away so much of who he was it was all he ultimately had left, cost him his Wife, very nearly his daughter-if Nadia even was honestly Sloane's daughter, which Sydney wasn't convinced about-and seemingly finished by taking away from him every friend, ally and remnant of family he'd ever had before Nadia came along. Nadia was what had seemingly changed Sloane, made him try to be a better man, maybe even do some good-but until she was handed proof she could ultimately trust and believe in, she'd always watch her back around the man.

None of which changed the fact that, in reality, Sloane regarded her, Sydney, still, as the daughter he'd never have almost as highly as he regarded Nadia, his own child. He'd help her when Jack couldn't or wouldn't, even if his help came with consequences that Sydney knew would fall back on her eventually-Sloane would ask her for something, which she would do, after which they would be even and no more would be said.

That was why she'd called him to this place, when she needed the problem to go away forever, no questions asked. That was why, since he'd arrived and she'd let him into the apartment and he'd seen the mess, he'd just stopped and stared for a full minute-before shaking his head slowly. Finally, he turned slightly to look straight at her and the look in his eyes was impossible to read, but she thought it looked like admiration-and if it was, she was going to throw up...

"Alright, I'll deal with this. Sydney, take my coat, cover yourself up and go. Go straight back to your apartment, stop for nothing, talk to nobody. When you're secure, burn any clothing you were wearing today that entered this building, shower and clean up as extensively as you can, then establish a complete timeline to account for whatever happened today after you spoke to me and I sent you here. Set it up without enough rehearsal to make it practised but enough to have all of the details right. I'll call on you tonight to establish absolutely what happened in secure conditions. Take care to collect your mobile and wallet on the way out. Now _go_" snapped Sloane, even as he turned back to the scene and drew out his own phone to make some necessary calls.

She left, there was nothing else for her to say or do. Thankfully, though, Sloane had given the now-empty tape recorder-tape not in evidence-a single cursory glance, then moved on to the more important issues. She still didn't know if she'd be able to force herself to look at the video itself later-maybe she'd just destroy it along with her clothes?

_Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam_

"Ms. Santi, I know that you and your superior are here to gather information as much as to help deal with the situation at hand, so let me be direct. I am a professional soldier and spy, a "Spook" as you call them in America. I fought as a foot soldier in the War, moved into Military Intelligence when I realised where my skills really lay and am now the Director _of_ Military Intelligence. Therefore, I know when I should and should not share information, which leads me to what you really need to know here" said General Mai, leaning forwards to look Nadia straight in the eyes, his own eyes almost swallowing her like pools of darkness filled with blood. His English wasn't remotely cultured, she dimly noted, it was rough and ready if perfectly serviceable with a heavy accent. He'd taught himself the language, she suspected.

It took her every ounce of self-control she had not to flinch, the old man had a gaze so intense it almost literally hurt. Just what had he seen and done to leave him with that kind of presence? Did she even _want_ to know?

"I am going to tell you everything I know about Jade because I want the bitch dead. I want her rotting carcass buried in a shallow grave where only wild dogs will find it. I want to look her in the eyes and see the light go out when she realises I have won. I want everything she values burnt, shredded and destroyed before she dies. I want all of these things to happen to her because, in 1975, she garrotted my brother after seducing him and left him in a way she knew I could never forgive for me to find. My mother died of shame after hearing of what she had done and my father shot himself after ten years of searching for her because he believed he had failed his son utterly. I am the only one of my line left and I have no children because I would not have them suffer as I have. Do you understand me, Ms. Santi?" asked General Mai, leaning in so close to Nadia that she could feel his breath on her face.

"...Yes I do, sir. I have...experience...with the loss of family" replied Nadia, slowly, letting the old man draw his own conclusions. His eyes narrowed and she hoped he didn't have any idea who she really was, because he struck her as being at least on Jack Bristow's level of intelligence and ruthless efficiency.

If he so much as suspected he was being used, she didn't doubt a man like this would simply reach across the car and kill her with his bare hands. Worse, in such close quarters she doubted she'd be able to overpower the old man in time with no room to dodge and, aged or not, there was nothing soft about him that she could see, despite advancing wrinkles. His shoulders were still broad and straight, his muscles still hard and evident beneath his uniform. She had no doubt that he was easily stronger than she was-and, as an old soldier, he'd be far better used to dealing with pain and discipline than her, so few of her trick manoeuvres were likely to be of use. She could _really_ have used Dixon on this one, but she could take care of herself if she needed to.

"I believe you do, Ms. Santi. I actually believe you do. Very well, I believe I shall begin then. First of all, Jade is certainly still alive, but I cannot be sure where. I have, however, managed to run down the possibilities to certain locations all off of the coast of Vietnam its-" began General Mai, but he suddenly cut off as his eyes opened wide. She didn't get the chance to turn and see whatever had caught his eye before something hit the right side passenger window at the rear of the car, punched right through, tore on through General Mai himself, exploding his head even as it decapitated him, then went on out the back window without even slowing down. It went through two full layers of bulletproof glass in the process, but Nadia barely even noticed that.

As the contents of General Mai's head erupted all over her, coating her from head to foot in gore, shards of shattered bone and tatters of ruined uniform torn loose by the sheer velocity of the bullets impact and exit, as fragments of glass from the window at the side dug into her left cheek and throat, she didn't have time to react to the seemingly silent bullet. Even as General Mai's decapitated body slowly collapsed forwards almost into her lap, the remnants of his head coming to rest on her knees, she couldn't react.

She'd later realise that the bullet was fired from an extraordinarily high-velocity rifle it would take APO's resources to identify, a weapon which fired very particular rounds so hard and accurately that anything short of full battle tank armour would be no more obstacle to it than wind resistance. She'd later rationalise that even the most experienced field Agent would have been momentarily stunned by the sudden carnage she'd been presented with.

At that moment in time, though, despite anything and everything, she couldn't have even breathed in to save her life. Even though she knew that Ambassador Frost-and, therefore, her-had to be the next targets. Which meant that she was about to die...

The ground suddenly seemed to shake, only to be followed a second later by the actual shockwave of two thunderous explosions which nearly rolled the armoured Limo right over and shook the big vehicle with such force that Nadia felt as though every single one of her bones had been reduced to jelly even as her internal organs were pulped. Barely still conscious and alert after the two sudden massive shocks, Nadia automatically noted that the two explosions had come from behind and in front of them-and she didn't need to think about it to realise that the two escort vehicles, out of the five-car convoy, had just been taken out. Along with the soldiers and their weapons riding in them, which left one car full of Diplomatic staff, one car carrying high-level dignitaries-and the Limo...

The driver of the Limo gunned the engine and rammed the big car into reverse, slamming the wheel hard over to the left and flooring the accelerator. She felt rather than heard tires scream as the heavy car was wrenched around-amidst tall two-storey buildings with lots of windows and shacks which could almost have been designed for ambush-even as the Limo went backwards into the front of a house, fast. It crashed right through the front wall and into the rooms before scraping to a stop, the driver already working the gears even as the Secret Service man beside him got his gun out and ready-

A figure stepped into sight in front of the car, lifting a weapon to his shoulder-and Nadia had a split-second to recognise it as an RPG before the man fired at the front windscreen from point-blank range and threw the gun away even as he dived for cover. All she could do was scream "GRENADE!" and tackle the Ambassador to the floor before it went off, shielding him with her own body...

The close-range launch and tremendous detonation actually drove the Limo even further back into the building it was practically embedded in. The privacy screen cracked in a dozen places as the front windscreen was blasted inwards with such force and velocity that shards of razor-sharp glass lacerated both driver and Secret Service Agent from head to foot even _before_ the force of the impact crushed their chests against the metal of the chairs frames. Both men were horrifically dead in less than a second, their final fate mercifully hidden from view by bomb damage blackening the remains of glass windows and splashed blood.

Finally coming to, Nadia caught the echoing sound of gunfire coming from the street-automatic rifles, pistols-and she heard screams, but no sound of sirens. That last one in particular wasn't good, despite the fact that maybe five minutes had passed in total since the attack began. Even in a still-developing city like Ho Chi Minh what had to appear a small-scale battle with military weaponry should have set off every alarm the city had and put either the police or the military, or both, on a crash course to the location with sirens screaming and guns blazing the second they were sure. She should have at least been able to hear _some_ kind of response by now...

The Limos doors were locked, but given the firepower these people were displaying she doubted they'd have trouble getting the doors open even from the outside. Worse, all she had to defend herself with was a plastic knife concealed in an ankle sheath, the best she could easily get past Embassy security. She'd just have to manage.

"Sir, are you armed?" asked Nadia quickly, even as she drew the knife and ran a spot check of the contents of the passenger area of the Limo, looking for anything useful. The best she could come up with was a set of large bottles of alcohol she could either use as clubs, improvised knives if she broke one or as Molotov Cocktails. Not good.

"Only with my wits, Nadia, old and muddled as they may be now. Check the privacy screen, the driver was armed like the Agent" replied Frost, his voice suddenly seeming to gain authority and power as he spoke. Oddly, given the timing, it occurred to Nadia that he was a man who people would have simply listened to and followed without question once upon a time. She could almost sense a shadow of the Agent he'd once been behind the man he now was, even as she tried the privacy screens controls. Not at all to her surprise, it didn't work. She was almost astonished that the Limo's engine was somehow still running. She glanced back at Frost and saw he'd noticed, he just nodded at her even as the thoughts of what she would have to do took shape in her mind.

"Outside and run, call in support and get any weapon you can to keep yourself alive. Me too, if you can manage it, but don't worry: this old dog still has a few bites left in him yet. They won't get a thing if I'm what they want" said Frost, staring hard out the side window, clearly so that he could spot anything or anyone approaching.

"I can't leave you like this, if they're after me they'll _kill_ you just to get to me" replied Nadia, more sharply than she'd intended. She didn't leave her friends to die-and, for some reason, she liked the old man. The look he shot her at her comment made her get her priorities straight very suddenly, though.

"Nadia Santos, I signed up for this job before your father was dressing himself and I have done my duty with my eyes wide open for fifty-seven years. I know every risk there is and have experience of every chance that can be taken. Very soon, I am going to die. I have nothing left to loose, while you have the rest of your life and any children you might have one day yet. So _GO_!" snapped Frost, face red with effort as he almost shouted at her. He got through, at the end.

Nadia released the secure lock on the door on her right side, rolled out before kicking it shut and ran bent over almost double for the nearest window. A bullet whipped past her and dug into the wall right by her head, but she didn't stop and threw up both arms in front of her face as she jumped through the closed window, trying to protect her eyes and throat. Glass shattered and wooden frame cracked under the impact, but her sheer body weight drove it all right out of the frame and to the floor under her as she hit the floor on her shoulder and rolled right over it to keep moving.

The alley she'd ended up in was only two feet wide, choked with weeds, rubbish and even the occasional brown-leafed plant. She hit the wall as she rolled, turned her momentum into a forwards tumble and came to her feet sprinting towards the main street with nowhere else to go, shooting enemies on all sides.

She never saw the chasing young man in jet-black combat gear and unmarked uniform lean out of the window behind her, MA-18 automatic rifle up and ready even as he took a straight-shot aim on the small of her back. She never saw a large glass bottle break over the soldiers head, stunning him for a moment before the end of the shattered bottle, all jagged shards and sharp edges, came over his shoulder and was stabbed into his throat before being twisted to make sure-a brief glimpse of arm revealing the Ambassadors suit design.

As she sprinted for the combat zone she made sure to keep an eye on high places, just in case. She came to a skidding halt just short of the main street, risked a look around the corner-and was caught by surprise again.

Two battered looking soldiers-one was leaving a trail of blood as he moved-were using the two remaining American vehicles as cover to return fire from at rooftops and windows, the two evidently being the only survivors of their escort. Not at all to her surprise the senior JAG officer, Sarah, was there too, clearly directing their efforts-on a Diplomatic run like this, the presence of a JAG officer would have been seen as vital-even as she used an M-16 herself to pin down people trying to shoot at them. Diplomatic staffers, identifiable by civilian clothing and the fact that they were all dead, lay all over the place, several clearly having been shot in the back as they ran for their lives. The last figure, though, the one literally standing back-to-back with Sarah, was the real surprise: Randi Russell, CIA Agent, who shouldn't even have been part of the convoy.

As though hearing the thought, Randi abruptly looked around and Nadia found their eyes locking from less than ten metres away-even as she realised that Randi was screaming something at her as she looked around. It took a long moment to process what Randi was saying due to unfamiliarity with the other woman's speech patterns and body language thanks to the deafening, continuing gunfire, but when she did she knew she was too late.

"Sniper". Randi had been screaming at her to get down because there was a Sniper...

She just knew, even as tried to dive for the floor only to hear the abrupt, sharp report of a single-shot high-velocity weapon that could only be a Snipers rifle, that she was his next target. As she felt a sudden, terrible pain in her head and suddenly knew absolute, total and final darkness rising to claim her at a horrifying speed, she had little doubt she'd ever wake up...

_The South China Sea_

Jade stretched out in a slow, languorous way that reminded her, exquisitely, of what Jack Bristow had just spent the last few hours doing to her-he'd always known exactly how and when to push every sensual edge she had, the only man she'd ever met who could, not that she'd ever tell him that-purred with recalled pleasure and wished that she'd been able to hold onto the man for at least another couple of days. A deal with Klein didn't get broken, though. In any case, she'd at least had the one last time to remind her of what she'd been missing...

Still standing on the beach where she'd waved him off from, before he'd been blindfolded and made to lie down to make any attempt to determine his position on a map impossible as the motorboat took him away, she actually felt a smile creeping up and across her face. With the slightest of chuckles she allowed it, a fact only those who knew her as well as he did would have caused a state of shock in. She didn't smile, she never laughed, her only satisfaction came from a job well done or a good kill.

The one time even that hadn't been enough to keep the Hell of her existence out of her mind...well, she'd made the mistake of going looking for Jack and settling for a friend of his, a man as lost as she was and almost as dead on the inside. A man who had, a fact he'd never even guessed at she knew for a fact after decades of detailed surveillance, had given her the ultimate reason to go on no matter how awful or impossible matters got.

Her daughter, very simply, the one and only time her body had proved the lie to her mothers claim of having had both of her daughters sterilised by a Witch Doctor when they were both new-born, a claim the mad old woman had made with ferocious glee and a sadistic smile on her face. It was why she hadn't spoken to, seen or had any form of contact with her mother since she'd run away from home, aged twenty, in 1971, when she'd discovered that there would be no more escape for her baby sister than there had been for her. She'd discovered what life was really like in 1959, at the age of eight, a lesson she'd never forgotten-nor could. Her baby sister was simply never going to know what she did about life, ever.

Her mobile rang unexpectedly, mainly because of just how strict she was with her Assets about contacting her directly under _very_ specific circumstances. They all well knew just what happened to anyone who stepped outside the set boundaries and protocols, a permanent solution there was no hope of recovery from.

She flicked it open and put it to her ear after checking user ID. The call-sign was "Marie", meaning it was the former DGSE Agent whose only Orders were to keep watch on her sister and ensure her safety at all costs. For this, she was compensated with what Jade knew she found far more valuable than money-information. "Marie" had suffered several losses in her life, terrible one's, but almost all of them had come with the job and were to be expected-and Marie was the flawless professional who could soak up loss, injury and damage with the best Agents around, ever. What she had discovered she _couldn't_ live with, though, was the first loss, the worst one-the only one she could never deal with on her own.

Jade, who had lived her entire life among killers of the highest order and worse when required, was one of very, very few people who could give "Marie" the one answer she had to have, so they'd made a deal. "Marie" would resign the DGSE and work exclusively for Jade, in return for which Jade would discover the answer Marie craved. The fact she'd trusted the young woman to look after her own sister would have told anyone who knew her just what her opinion of the Agent was-and just what it meant would have to happen for "Marie" to call Jade directly.

Her face deliberately neutral, Jade put the phone to her ear and said "Hello?" Making sure that what she was thinking was invisible anywhere on her face and in her eyes was a trick she'd perfected long ago, which turned out to be useful as "Marie" related the recent events in LA. When she spoke again, in fact, her voice was just as neutral.

"You deal with Arvin Sloane. I'll handle Sydney Bristow myself. Make sure she's safe and healthy, first" said Jade, receiving a confirmation before she hung up. She didn't need to state who was to be secured, "Marie" knew her responsibilities and her job.

The smile simply fell off of Jades face and her eyes glinted in the sunlight with traces of something which hadn't seen daylight in a long time. It would appear that her killing days weren't quite behind her yet...

/End of Chapter 17. All Reviews welcomed/.


	19. Chapter 19

Legal disclaimers: see earlier parts.

Disclaimers: see earlier parts.

**The Last Day**

_The Andes Mountains, Argentina, 2002_

The plateau halfway up the side of the mountain was small, barely twenty feet long by fifteen across, but it easily supported the rectangular fighting ring mounted atop it, just as easily as the mountains dark rock facings absorbed the darkly-dressed two figures moving quickly around the ring. That, in fact, was the entire point of the platforms placement.

Nadia Santos knew this because she worked for Argentinean Intelligence. This place was a little-known and heavily restricted area that would never be found by accident, where Agents and allied Operatives could come to both train and relax, or even hide away if they so wished. The small shed-like structures built into the rock of the mountain itself, living amenities being contained deep inside for the purposes of camouflage just as the doors and front walls design was set up a particular way, contained sufficient in the way of Iron Rations and purified water to last six months if used properly. It was one of the most secure places on Earth available to Agents who knew of its existence-which made the presence of the woman she was fencing with all the more peculiar.

Even as she swung the Bo staff lazily around in her hands, passed from hand to hand so quickly that only sharp or experienced eyes would have even registered the movement, she studied her opponent again. She was an exotic creature, that was for sure-and, given Nadia's matching state of dress, she was also extremely physically formidable just to the eyes.

A short, sleeveless jet black t-shirt pulled so tight around her shoulders and ribcage, leaving her midriff, sides and lower back bare, that it didn't even release the sweat from her skin that was soaking through it. Equally tight black leggings that extended from her hips to midway down her calves left her feet bare, letting her feel every grain of the smoothed wooden surface of the rings surface. Her long hair was tied in a tight ponytail behind her back, her only ornamentation the Bo staff, six foot of hard wood-it was longer than she was tall by almost six inches-held in her hands. Her eyes were sharp and alert, her muscles tensed, she was ready-and the other woman made her look asleep.

Artemisia Hades, professional assassin and easily amongst the top ten most capable killers in the world. Incredible eyes an alluring mixture of emerald green and bright gold made her look away fast every time she locked eyes with the woman, something magnetic in the strange woman's mere gaze threatening to drag her down so deep inside that she'd never make it back out the same every time they looked at each other. Worse, Artemisia's beauty and body were simply the definition of male fantasy, all full curves and long, smooth lines, but she carried no excess weight at all and the slightest glance made evident that hard muscle rippled under smooth skin. The other woman moved with such a perfect, flawless grace that it was hard to absorb any human could naturally possess it, shifting around and about everything as though she was simply not meant to be anywhere she could suffer harm or distraction.

Her reflexes were so good that she'd not only stopped dead a staff-strike she could only have glimpsed coming at most, but replied with two short, sharp strikes to the floating ribs from her own staff before Nadia had managed to disengage and fall back, even managing to pull her punches to the degree that she'd hardly left bruises. Her agility, coordination and spatial awareness were beyond Nadia's ability to understand in her head. It didn't matter, Nadia could work through pain-she just wasn't at all sure she could even honestly land a blow against her remarkable opponent.

Artemisia abruptly approached, staff swinging around with increasing speed-then she suddenly dropped into a combat crouch and slashed an attack at Nadia's knees. Nadia leapt up and backwards automatically, going for the parry with her own staff but missing utterly. Artemisia spun completely around and came back at her with a stabbing manoeuvre aimed directly at Nadia's stomach. Nadia twisted sharply in mid-air to avoid it, but the sudden shift in posture put her off-balance and she landed badly.

She hit the floor hard, dropped and rolled into Artemisia before surging back to her feet, trying for a sneak elbow attack to the jaw that might, if it connected solidly, stun the other woman for just a second-all she would need. Of course, however, Artemisia saw it coming-and responded by dropping her staff and countering with a massive uppercut that connected with Nadia's jaw like a heavy hammer at the end of a long swing driven by two strong men.

Nadia's feet left the floor as the bone-breaking punch connected, dimly aware that her staff had fallen from suddenly limp hands as it fell to the floor of the fighting ring. She found herself reeling over backwards in mid-air before she landed head-first on the planks with the same awful impact that had so obviously cracked her jaw, everything going dark for a long second before she realised she'd skidded halfway across the platform and was half-over the safety line, barely conscious at best.

Her last conscious memory was the sight of a worried looking Artemisia heading over to her in a spurt of speed as she ran, even that simply demonstrating her impossible elegance. She'd later discover that, with one punch, the assassin had hit her so hard she'd been left with a cracked jaw and Concussion. She was even more formidable than Nadia would have imagined-was it wrong that, later, she would want to find out just what that really meant, as far as it went?

_Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 2007, two days ago_

Dixon was convinced he was dead the second he saw the knife, not least because of just who was holding it. When Aishwariya Nevata stabbed him he _knew_ he was dead, without even time to so much as think his goodbyes. He wanted to scream out in rage and give voice to his hatred, of the life that had taken his Wife, his children's mother, from him, that was now taking him from his still-young children and leaving them Orphans... But he was still so weak that he couldn't even call out loudly enough to attract attention outside the room. He fell the blade plunge into his chest, biting deep, felt his heart skip a beat-

Then he suddenly registered the fact that he felt as though he could spring out of bed and sprint ten miles. As though he could arm-wrestle two men at the same time and win. As though he could spar with Sydney Bristow all day, again...

He sat up so suddenly he nearly fell out of bed, even as Aishwariya withdrew the knife-remarkably, completely clean of blood-and sheathed it again. He breathed in as deeply as possible, unclenching and clenching his fists just to prove that he could, before throwing the bed sheets aside and putting his feet on the floor facing Aishwariya. She was just sitting still, doing nothing, but while he barely knew her he _did_ know her better than that. She wasn't relaxing or ignoring him, she was waiting for him to pull himself together and ask what he needed to know. Once he had, she'd disappear again just as quickly and completely as she had after the first time they'd met.

She'd saved his life twice now, whatever it was she'd done this time, he'd remember that and was sure she would too. It didn't matter, all debts would be honoured, he was a man of honour and didn't leave _anyone_ to swing alone if he owed them and they needed his help. When the time came, he'd find a way to settle matters or die trying, that was just who he was. With that in mind, he decided to keep his questions short and to the point.

"What did you just do?" he asked, wincing as he felt a brief stab of pain in his chest. Whether she'd saved his life or not, she'd still driven a knife into his chest. Well, that would be a new scar to add to his extensive collection, then.

"Saved your life and your mind, in that order. You were fed an engineered Neurotoxin that has been specially altered to pass all standard poison and tox screens by manifesting itself as only the symptoms of severe food poisoning for the first six hours. After this it mutates and begins to degrade your internal organs, muscle and tissue, spreading from there to the brain through the fluid in the spinal cord.

You would have lost all control over your own motor functions long before your intelligence failed to the degree that you would be unable to understand what was happening you as your body disintegrated from the inside out. Your vitals would have rotted away, your mind would be gone and you would have been little more than red pulp covered by stretched, torn skin an hour before you actually died. There would have _been_ no cure after it mutated, before you ask" replied Aishwariya, pausing to look him in the eyes before continuing.

"The only way to stop it is to introduce silver nitrate directly into the heart in a very particular quantity before the six hour mark, added to a healthy dose of Adrenaline to kick-start the heart and force the Cure around the body as quickly as possible. Yes, I used a poison to kill a poison, but I'm no chemist, I just know that it works. How do you feel?" asked Aishwariya-he'd almost swear he saw concern in her eyes for a moment, but he knew better. The woman was crazy at best, insane at worst, it would take a Hell of a lot more than a good deed-even saving his life-to convince him she even had, let alone understood, human feelings.

"Alive and alert, thanks for that. Why are you here? I haven't even seen you since India in 99'?" asked Dixon, looking around for his clothes. They were neatly hung in the room cupboard, he assumed, so he got up, slowly and carefully, to walk over to it.

"Your welcome. Actually, though, while you haven't seen _me_, I _have_ seen _you_. Eight years gives one a lot of time to think and, to be honest, I found myself thinking of you more than any of the other men and women I've been with-I know we never actually did anything, Marcus-so it made sense to me to check in on you from time to time. I'd apologise for your Wife, but I had nothing to do with that. I do, though, have a good reason for being here other than saving your life, though..." said Aishwariya, pausing as she reached into the pocket of her medical coat.

Dixon got changed after discovering his clothes in the cupboard, listening to Ashwariya's voice but otherwise concentrating on the job in hand. As a professional, he had to keep all his options open after all. What the woman saw of his body while he got changed he didn't care, he wasn't ultimately interested in her that way. It would have been like going to bed with a feral wild animal, in any case, he was sure. Unbelievably intense and beyond incredible in terms of physical pleasure and satisfaction, as well as in experience, but as emotionally fulfilling as being alone in a dark room.

He needed more after his Wife and the way he lost her, as the family man and lone parent he was to his son and daughter now. He was too old to get involved in casual flings and one-night stands any longer, regardless, it had been a _long_ time since he'd been a careless and irresponsible teenager with the world-so he thought-at his feet. Hayden Chase, while Director of the CIA, had suffered through enough loss and personal injury, more than enough in fact, that she knew exactly where he was coming from and could meet him at much closer than halfway. More to the point, they both knew their relationship for what it was: two lonely, ageing people finding some small comfort together in the night, a hold-out against the bitter world that always awaited them on waking. Aishwariya? He had no doubt in him that she'd break him if he was ever fool enough to succumb to her advances, even out of weakness or simple self-hatred-

An explosion briefly lit up the sunlit sky deep into the city-a massive explosion, he didn't need to even consider, to show up so clearly in the bright light of day in Vietnam. The rattling echo of heavy impact actually managed to shake the windows in the Embassy, which he _really_ didn't like. His memory was perfectly clear, he knew exactly what was supposed to happen today, when-and with who. He had no need of three guesses to work out what was most likely happening.

"Can we talk later? I'm going to be very busy for a while?" Dixon asked, even as he headed for the door, slinging his jacket on around him as he went. Aishwariya caught up with him before he'd gotten out the door, though, then she was striding along beside him, matching him step for step.

"We can talk on the way..." she replied, with a wicked smile on her face...

/End of Chapter 18. All reviews welcomed/.


	20. Chapter 20

Legal disclaimers: see earlier parts.

Disclaimers: see earlier parts.

**The Last Day**

_Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 2007, two days ago_

Her first thought was that she'd had her skull cracked with a sledgehammer. Her second was that she was suffering from a Hangover specially imported inside her head directly from Hell. Her third, as she became self-aware again on some level, was that she couldn't possibly be dead. Not even eternal torment could hurt as much as her head did, surely. She felt as though she was going to throw up, but none of her muscles were cooperating so she was left with just a foul, acid taste in her throat. She dimly heard shallow, slow breathing...but it took a moment for it to register that the sound was _her_ breathing.

Even as some part of her mind rerouted everything in a way which made her body and mind function again, if only slightly and slowly, she became aware of a terrible pressure on the top left side of her skull, as though muscle, flesh and even bone had been driven inwards towards her brain. A sudden flash of raw, red agony spiked right through every nerve straight into her brain and struck the centre of her ability to process pain with such force that her heart almost stopped. She still couldn't move, or she would have contorted in agony and probably torn muscles through sheer contortion and uncontrollable exertion. The pain had a surprising side effect, though, if it could be called that-the hideous shock woke her up, completely.

She breathed in sharply as every sense woke up in an instant, her lungs letting her know in no uncertain terms that she _had_ to breathe in. As she did so every muscle spasmed, her arms and legs jerked involuntarily as she almost sat up, not even fully aware of what she was doing-she was suddenly aware of the fact that a pair of strong, warm arms were holding her tight around the waist and shoulders. She realised that she was lying on a surface which was constantly moving, parts of it metal, part soft but firm leather, the rest was muscle, bone and what she could tell was a woman's body holding her upright. Car, she was in a car and moving...

Memories suddenly flooded her mind in a dream blur of sounds and sights, fragmentary recollections of her whole life. She forced herself to concentrate, focus, separate it all out so it made sense-and suddenly she knew. She simply knew it all, remembered everything, who she was, where she was, what she was doing there... A bloody red film briefly seemed to cover her eyes, but slowly faded away even as she forced her eyelids to open. Sunlight, clouds and blue sky resolved themselves first, then she managed to twist her head around ever so slightly to see who her rescuer-if they were-was.

She found herself looking into the worried eyes of a battered looking Randi Russell, blackened with soot from close-range explosions and fire, a slim slit cut in her left cheek steadily dripping blood down her face, her blonde hair singed. Her official clothes weren't much better off, being blackened and torn by impacts, near miss gunshots-and, on her left forearm, her shirt and jacket were torn away because the sleeve had been used to make a primitive bandage around what had to be a through-and-through gunshot wound. It was still bleeding despite the bandage, drops of blood slowly but steadily dropping to the floor beneath her and occasionally staining what was left of her clothes, but she didn't seem to care.

Nadia's first thought was to wonder just how badly hurt she really was. She'd been shot before, beaten, stabbed and even electrocuted-yet none of that had hurt anywhere close to as much as the evident crack in her head did. Was her skull fractured or worse? Did she even _want_ to know? If a chunk of her skull had actually been blasted away and her brain left exposed, another knock to the head could just as easily leave her a vegetable as kill her. Even the thought was almost enough to scare her to death. She forced herself not to even think about it, whatever had happened simply _had_, it wasn't as though it could be helped or undone.

Her second thought was that, given what little she'd seen of the last stand Randi and Sarah had been mounting with the remnants of the convoy guard, they should all be dead. Why they weren't was a question she badly needed answered, now...

"Helena? Can you hear me? Are you alright?" asked Randi, slowly and clearly. She'd obviously dealt with people with severe head trauma before, Nadia almost distantly noted. After suffering the kind of massive physical and mental trauma Nadia had, the last thing you wanted to do was risk further damage on either level. A sudden shock, for example, might just be enough to finish her off.

Nadia hoped that it wasn't true for her, but she had no way of telling for sure. On top of which, the chance of medical attention any time in the near future looked very dim, not helped by the fact she was evidently heading towards even more violence. This had to stop, though, very soon. She hadn't been in best shape when she'd arrived in Vietnam, since when she'd lost her Partner, been shot in the head and evidently left for dead. If she kept on like this, she'd just be found dead by the end of the day.

"Yes…I can hear you and no…I'm not alright. My head hurts more than I can tell you and I can barely…concentrate. What's…going on?" replied Nadia, having to try more than once to get all of the words out. She didn't like that, at _all._

"Sounds like a nasty Concussion. As for what's going on, since you asked, Sarah, you, the remaining soldier and I are chasing after Ambassador Frost in a "borrowed" jeep we found after our own vehicles got written off in the shoot-out. Seems he was the one they were after all along, lot of good it'll do them…" said Randi, with a smirk Nadia didn't understand.

"I don't understand. What…do you mean?" asked Nadia, not liking the fact that there was clearly something she should have known she didn't about Ambassador Frost, especially since Randi obviously did.

"Suffice to say that if you don't know I can't tell you. Lets just leave it at whoever took him having one Hell of a surprise coming their way. If you mean how did we get out of the mess we were in? We had some help…" replied Nadia, with a wink.

_Twenty minutes ago..._

Dixon checked out an M-16, pistol and bullet proof jacket from the Embassy Armoury with no trouble once he showed his ID as Security in the Embassy went into uproar and controlled panic at the sight of attacks on what it had been clearly established was Ambassador Frost's convoy. Senior personnel were barking Orders left and right as Marines ran for weapons and gear and Embassy Security Staff moved to lock down the entire facility. He knew the drill from years past, the Marines would be mounted up and moving to reinforce, relieve or rescue as necessary in ten minutes if they were well-trained and knew their job. He'd just have to get there first.

He moved with the confident air and authority that came from years of service in the Military as he ran outside, pulling off his act with such expertise that not one of the soldiers or security personnel even blinked at the sight of a man in a smart suit running past armed to the teeth. He could hardly run all the way to the ambush site and expect to arrive in time to do anything but count bodies and estimate damage, though, so he wondered where Aishwariya had gotten herself too. She'd stated that she'd get a vehicle and not to worry about her otherwise-not that he did, knowing full well just how resourceful she was. They needed to go _now_-

A roaring, powerful engine suddenly bellowed from so close by he nearly dived aside in reflex. A heavy vehicle drew up beside him-he blinked momentarily, an open-top Humvee?-before he took in Aishwariya at the controls making "Get in" motions. Even as he did, easily vaulting into the passenger seat as she hit the gas with such force that the Humvee almost reared as the tires burnt against the road before catapulting them forwards, he couldn't help but stare at Aishwariya. Why she had that effect on him wasn't really something he wanted to think about too much, especially right now.

Aishwariya had changed clothes since they'd split up. She was now wearing a tight black sleeveless t-shirt, close-fitting leggings and the kind of hard black boots designed for military use since they could and did survive any terrain and conditions. She'd somehow found the time to put on a bullet proof vest which had combat webbing strung across it-and even managed to fill all of the pockets with spare pieces of equipment. A large-calibre long-muzzle pistol he, surprisingly, didn't recognise the design or make of was holstered on her right leg, a hunting knife on her left. She'd had five minutes... All he could do was shake his head.

The Humvee raced for the gates and passed through them in a blur, despite startled shouts from the guards who had been keeping the gates open for the Marines fast response units. Aishwariya drove the Humvee like it was a race car and took corners without even touching the brakes, whipping the wheel about at just the right time, every time, to send the big vehicle howling down the middle of every road and side road as though there was no other possibility.

He didn't even bother asking if she knew where she was going as the rising pall of smoke and rattle of gunfire drew closer and closer with almost absurd speed. He just hoped they were armed to handle whatever they encountered.

"Marcus, pop the trunk behind my seat will you? There are some things in it I'll need" said Aishwariya, her voice so devoid of even a hint of tension or nerves that she might as well have been discussing the weather. Since he'd managed to put on his vest he turned and popped the silvery gun trunk behind the drivers seat-and had to swallow.

Grenades, spare ammunition of all descriptions, three spare pistols of three different calibres, an Uzi, dual silenced 9MM pistols, a high-velocity recoilless Snipers rifle, more blades of every description than he wanted to casually consider, Knuckledusters and combat clubs-he could even pick out at least one Thermite charge. He swallowed again, this was the treasure trove of either a lunatic survivalist or a professional who had far more money and time on their hands than was wise. He had no doubt that it was hers, regardless.

"Get me the Snipers rifle and the Uzi, take what you want then lock it shut, it would take an RPG to crack it open before you ask. No, the Humvee isn't mine either, but your military weren't using it" said Aishwariya, even as her attention never left the road ahead of them. This time he didn't even blink, he gathered what she needed and a spare clip for every weapon both of them had, added a couple of grenades in his pockets and locked the case shut as Ordered.

"Do I even want to know?" he asked, dryly, deciding that just going with the situation as it presented itself was the best and only way to go given how things were quickly turning out. After all, he knew what Aishwariya could do after seeing her work first-hand, it wasn't something he _could_ forget-no matter just how crazy he _knew_ she was.

"They're all clean guns, Marcus, better you don't ask the rest. Were almost there, you drive so I can shoot. Bear in mind this may be an armoured car but I'm sure this is an ambush designed to destroy the Ambassadors limo, which is bigger and better, so get out and stay out once were in. You remember what Farragut said?" asked Aishwariya, a very faint smile showing on her face.

Dixon, who had no idea what she was talking about, shook his head and just said "No, what?" even as they got so close to the sound of fighting-the sound of which was dropping off alarmingly quickly, he couldn't help but notice-that he knew it was only around the next corner at the end of a short street. They smoothly slid across one another to change places even as he spoke, as though they'd been doing it for years. Of course, given the kind of lives they'd both led, they both _had_ been doing it for years. This was _it_.

"Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead! I always wanted to say that going into a fight..." replied Aishwariya, the threatening smile on her face erupting into a full-on grin as they went hurtling head-first into combat against what had to be, at best, a more numerous and better-armed enemy.

Dixon couldn't help but grin back at her, her madness seemingly infectious. He tried hard not to think that he suddenly felt more alive than he ever had since his Wife's death... He _did_ have Chase and the twenty-year age gap between himself and Aishwariya to consider, after all. The fact that Aishwariya was a literal madwoman and professional assassin were "problems", too. He tried very hard to ignore the small voice in the back of his head which told him he was fooling himself if he believed either of them would let any of those things get in the way...

Aishwariya raised her Snipers rifle and made sure the Safety was off even as they came up on the street all of the shooting was coming from. Dixon saw the truck blocking the mouth of the road but didn't even blink, swerving sharply and heading for the wall to the trucks left instead. The old buildings had been shoddily built and designed when they were first built, basic research had taught him, age and weathering would have done nothing to improve matters-

Aishwariya ducked behind the raised windscreen even as the Humvee exploded through the weak wall, exploding bricks, clouds of cement dust and pieces of glass from a window which crashed backwards inside the building with the force of the impact. The heavy vehicle didn't even shudder with the collision before powering right on through the new hole, engine roaring, exploding into the street beyond.

Bullets almost instantly pinged off of the Humvees armoured front and sides, bulletproof glass shaking in its frame as bullets scattered off of it. Aishwariya leant back towards the sky and returned fire even before they'd stopped moving as Dixon stood on the brakes, well aware they were sitting targets in the Humvee with no overhead protection against Snipers on rooftops and anyone armed with grenades. He grabbed his M-16 even as the Humvee slewed to a stop and let loose a series of short bursts high up to keep people's heads down. He realised a second later he needn't have bothered.

In ten seconds of shooting Aishwariya had dropped the six armed people in sight with six shots and not one of them had moved since. She'd slung her rifle, grabbed her Uzi and rolled over the side of the Humvee to the ground before they'd even stopped moving, performed a flawless shoulder roll and come up running right. A short burst from the Uzi shattered a window enough for her to throw a grenade through the glass, after which she ducked sideways and aimed at the roofs. A gout of fire and shrapnel took the front door off of its hinges and threw it across the street even as every window erupted in shards of razor glass thrown around like lethal confetti in the Wedding from Hell.

A scream which made even the battle-hardened Dixon flinch echoed from inside momentarily, but was abruptly cut off by a gurgling whimper he knew only too well. Aishwariya was inside and out of sight faster than he could think to follow even her movements, but he just smiled at that. There was one woman who'd _never_ loose her edge...

He shoved his door open and ran at a dead sprint for the nearest door following her example. A single solid kick with all of his muscle behind it shattered the lock and smashed the door inwards. He was inside a second later, M-16 up and ready on a hair trigger, but there was no one in sight. He paused for five seconds and waited, listening for anything at all out of the ordinary, but was sure there was nothing given what little time he had. He ran for the roof, noticing on some level that no civilians were present. This all stank of a very carefully planned ambush nobody was supposed to survive and, given what he'd seen and heard so far, it stood a good chance of succeeding unless he stopped thinking and started _acting_.

He crashed through a small wooden door onto a roof fenced in with wood slats with an empty washing line hanging across it-and found a dead man lying on his back, a small, neat hole between his eyes. An automatic rifle was still in the mans hands, a pistol still in his right hip holster. Aishwariya's work, he had no doubt. Sometimes he could almost forget just how lethally effective the woman could be in her element, then something like this reminded him.

He vaulted to the top of the fence and jumped to the roof of the next building, some three feet below, thumping down with a heavy grunt which reminded him he wasn't getting any younger. He forced himself back to his feet and sprinted on across the seemingly barren rooftop to the next one, noting a dead man with a fist-sized hole which was clearly the exit wound from a rifle shell coming out the back of his chest right over where his heart would have been. A broad slick of blood was already spreading out around him as he lay face down and dead on the rooftop. The next rooftop was, however, a problem.

Whoever the shooter was, he or she knew what he or she was doing. The abrupt crack of gunfire made Dixon throw himself flat automatically as he realised it was coming from nearby, but the move cost him any ability to dodge or duck the second shot-which slashed into his upper left leg. He hissed in pain, teeth gritted so hard that he thought for a moment one would crack, but rolled and aimed sharply because, despite the skill on display-textbook Sniper school tactics: under attack means disable the target if immediate kill is not possible and maintain until position secured-the shooter had made a serious error. Two shots in such short order let his ears pick up on where they were coming from-and he'd trained in Counter-Sniper tactics while he was still in the military, skills he'd just improved on since being recruited into the...intelligence world.

His eyes zeroed on where his ears told him the shooting was coming from, a building ahead and to the right of him on the top floor. He caught a glimpse of movement and let loose a snapped burst of fire-the figure collapsed. He followed up with a second burst to make sure, then ripped his tie off and used it on his leg as a Tourniquet, even though he was sure no arteries had been hit since there was so little evident loss of blood. It didn't change the fact he had a bullet in his leg, which meant he had to be very careful.

He stood up and the leg took his weight, so he jogged to the side of the building at the best speed he could manage-and finally saw the remnants of the besieged convoy, just in time to see Nadia get shot in the head and collapse bonelessly as she tried to reach the hold-out of armed personnel left alive and upright amidst the burning and destroyed vehicles. Something cold and hard settled in behind his eyes as he watched that and, without even really having to think about it, he found himself tracking back the shooters position-then a sudden, sharp burst on semi-automatic sent the shooter flailing backwards as though he'd been hit by a car. Dixon didn't even need to confirm the kill, he knew people died when he was really shooting to kill...

On the other side of the street, Aishwariya had run into more resistance. She'd shot the man on the roof dead from the Humvee, taken out the guard on the ground floor with the grenade and proceeded inside with no further immediate problems. It was only when she began moving up the stairs, Uzi in hand, that she, literally, hit further problems.

A man in a dark-brown uniform she didn't recognise came out of a room on the upper landing and threw himself right on top of her without slowing down, vaulting the stair rail like an athlete without using his hands and crashing into her head-first, arms outstretched, before she could do any more than brace for impact. Stronger than she looked she didn't fall or collapse even as his dead weight wrapped around her, but that didn't stop him grabbing her head in both hands and trying to put her eyes out with his thumbs. She dropped her Uzi and grabbed his hands with hers, before twisting sharply just below the wrist joint.

Both thumbs broke even as she dislocated both his wrists, he was trained but it wasn't close to enough. He couldn't hold in a howl of agony, which abruptly ended as she snapped one of the banister supports with a sharp kick and rammed his head down onto it through the eye socket. Instinct made her kick backwards and away even as he died, two bullets cracking into the space she'd occupied two seconds ago. She threw herself back down the stairs and drew her pistol the moment she hit the floor in a tumblers roll, but didn't stop moving as she dived hard right and came to a stop hard against a wall. Another bullet struck home where she should have been standing-_would_ have been if she'd tried to stop and shoot back.

There was a marksman upstairs, but she could deal with that. He should have waited for the confirmed kill before he opened fire, like she would have done. Professionals didn't get second chances in their business, if these _were_ Mercenaries.

Her ears did their job, she absorbed the slight shift of weight two floors above, directly below the roof level. Somebody who thought they were safe if they couldn't be seen by the target, a novice failing. That settled it, the people doing this were trained Mercenaries who were seriously lacking in experience in her opinion. After twenty years on the job, starting at sixteen, she was in a position to know these things.

Besides which, she'd learnt the hard way before now, more than once, that just because you couldn't be seen didn't mean you couldn't be killed-or at least shot, in her case. That was why she carried her special pistol, after all. It was limited to six shots before she had to reload, but she'd never needed more than two.

She tracked the slow, stealthy shift of weight and position above, slowly, carefully, until she was sure her target was static, aimed carefully and pulled the trigger in one smooth, fast motion. The long, heavy bullet went through every obstacle as though it was insignificant, slashed through air so fast it cut with a whine-and tore through flesh and bone just as easily. The terribly final thud of a body falling limp to the floor above told her all that she needed to know. Holstering her pistol, she retrieved her Uzi and went on upstairs.

The man who had been shooting at her had lost half his head and lay in a mass of blood and mangled flesh, not that she cared. She'd chosen the building for reasons other than who was in it to kill this time, at least. When she got outside, she just confirmed what she already knew: that the building she was in had an eagle-eye view of every other building in the street. Now she was set. She holstered her Uzi, laid out her Snipers rifle and got to work.

There was no way she was going to have a face-to-face meeting with American officials or soldiers of any sort, which meant that Dixon was going to have to do the legwork on this one. He was up to the task, she knew, with her watching his back especially so. After all, kills no one saw coming from the impossible angle were her speciality-and she wasn't being egotistical or exaggerating when she stated that she was a master Sniper. When she shot at someone or something she hit the target, one shot one kill, that was it. She'd never been the type to play with her food.

One day, she really would have to sit down and work out what that made Dixon to her. There was almost nothing left it was possible to do to the human mind and body that hadn't either been done _by_ her or _to_ her over the years. There was _nothing_ about pain and suffering she didn't know, people said she could torture the dead-and bring them back from Hell to answer her questions. She'd experienced every pleasure known to man and woman, just to be thorough, enough money and words in the right ears could arrange for anything-and everything, truth be told. And yet, and yet...

She'd never, ever been able to get Marcus Dixon out of her head ever since she'd first met him. She'd never been able to bring herself to hurt him. When his Wife had been killed, she'd even found herself hoping that he'd come to her for help and they could...what, discover just what this hold he had over her was, she supposed? She actually felt...good? When she was around him, that was. She wished she could work out whether or not that was a good thing. Normally she was as mercurial as a drop of water in the ocean, liable to change and do anything at any moment, but not around _him_. Why, why, why...

_LA_

Sydney Bristow knew she wasn't an alcoholic, but after renting an old video player, putting in Hannah Corvay's video once she'd attached the video to her TV and sitting down to watch it with the curtains drawn and a glass of wine to hand, the whole fresh bottle within easy reach, she had no doubt that she would become one if she drank just one more glass after everything she'd suffered of late. Drinking to block out the bad quickly led to blocking out the good, too, after which it was easy to slide into using the strongest alcoholic drink to block out life itself because it had become more than one could handle.

Of all people, she had Arvin Sloane to thank for this knowledge after they'd sat down and talked, during one of their rare civil conversations about her private life, about her father and how he'd ended up the way he was. Most of it had been what her mother had done to him, of course, added to all of the stresses and strains always suffered by a field Agent in the CIA, particularly one as successful in the field as her father had been in his prime, but it had turned out there was far more to it as well.

Her father had never known his father, after the man had walked out when Jack was still too young to even be walking around. His mother had been a hard, harsh woman who had, after his father had left, sunk into a downward spiral of misery and depression fuelled by alcohol, drugs and numerous casual sexual encounters with men whose names she never knew, just to begin with. Her father, not even into his teens, had had to look after himself, his own home and effectively his own mother when most his age were playing with toys while learning to read and write. His mother had finally been institutionalised when he was fifteen after two Suicide attempts and an assault on Paramedics who had managed to revive her after she'd nearly succeeded the second time. Jack had become a Ward of State until he was eighteen, when he became a legal adult, put himself through University-and got recruited by the CIA at nineteen, just like his daughter almost twenty-five years later.

He'd met her mother at the tender age of twenty and, unsurprisingly given his interest in all things Russian or related, promptly fallen head over heels for the youthful beauty of Russian extraction he'd met one day at University. They'd been married within a year, four years later Sydney had come along and, Sloane had told her, her father had finally found the life he'd always wanted. A loving Wife, beautiful child of his own, house he owned to call home with his family...

Then his Wife had seemingly died in accident and his heart had been torn out overnight. When he'd discovered that his beloved Wife, the mother of his child, had been a Russian KGB Agent all along, playing him the whole time? The man Arvin Sloane had known had died the moment he found out the truth. For the whole six months Jack had been held in Solitary after his arrest and the investigation by just about every security agency in the USA into every aspect of his life he hadn't spoken, moved except to eat or carry out vital bodily functions, reacted to anything except physical threats and interacted on a human level with anyone at all.

When he'd been cleared and released, he'd fallen into a Depression so severe the Counsellor he'd been ordered to see had put him on Suicide Watch for the first two weeks of his release. Once free of that he'd started drinking so heavily that he'd lost days of his life at a time, stopped taking care of himself completely and started gambling in extremely questionable dens while tossing back medication meant to help him as though he was eating candy and chased it down with Whiskey. Sloane had had to cover for Jack when, after Jack caught another player cheating at a high-stakes Poker game, he found six armed men waiting to kill him outside after he got the man thrown out and cost him his stake.

Violence had never been a solution with Jack Bristow, though, the man didn't know how to loose, or fail-although his Wife had come close to teaching him how it worked. He'd taken out all of his anger on the men who'd come to kill him-and put five of them in hospital with his bare hands. Sloane had had to resuscitate the last man after an almost deranged Jack had throttled him, then bundle Jack away before making sure that none of the injured men remembered anything at all.

In the end it was anger that had brought Jack Bristow back to himself, the kind of fury at what his "Wife" had done to him that only burned once in a lifetime if one was very, very lucky. The remnants of the man Sloane had known had disappeared when the man she knew as her father had come into being, with ice behind the eyes and a solid steel suit of armour around his heart and his feelings both. But after everything he'd suffered through and been subjected to, could she really blame him? Could she even say she _knew_ the man after everything, with all of the scars he had to be carrying around on the inside? Would she ever be able to say "Yes" and know she was right?

None of this changed the fact that her father, Jack Bristow, was both the most terrifying man she'd ever met-_and_ the strongest. If he could fall into Hell after learning terrible truths so could _she_, which scared her more than she'd ever admit. She wished he was with her now, she wished her sister was here with her now, she even wished her mother was here now, but nobody else. Not even Vaughn, although she would have trusted him with anything...once.

None of that changed the facts of the matter. She didn't remember what she'd done, what she'd said or even what it was she'd really been after that had caused her to do...whatever. The answers _could_ be on this tape...

After a long moments pause, she forced her eyes and hands away from the glass of wine and looked straight at the TV, then took the remote in her hand and pressed "Play". She had to know who she was, maybe _what_ she was.

She _had_ to...

Y

Sloane had called two men he trusted to keep their mouths shut and get the job done for the right money immediately after Sydney had left Hannah Corvay's apartment, told them what he needed and told them he needed them _now_. The call made, he'd taken a slow and careful walk around the apartment observing and taking in everything, then turned to Hannah Corvay herself and crouched down to get a closer look.

He had to admit that the woman was tough. He'd known people who wouldn't even have survived injuries like hers, but the woman looked uncomfortable more than agonised and he got the distinct impression, from her body language, that she'd been knocked unconscious rather than having passed out from the pain and would soon be back amongst those in the waking world. She wouldn't be able to see, not with her eyes and face so battered and swollen from massive physical abuse, but there was nothing wrong with her ears and she would undoubtedly recall any voices she heard.

He couldn't allow that, any more than he could allow her to even possibly recover enough to call the Police-or, worse, her Sister-with Sydney so vivid in her minds eye as the cause of such savage an attack. Come to that, how had Sydney ever brought herself to do anything like this? He'd known her practically since birth and didn't even need to think about it to be sure this wasn't something she was capable of in her right mind.

Had her mind really been so damaged by her time as "Julia Thorne?" Or was this something hidden away deep inside her even she didn't know about coming out? He wished he knew, but he was sure that even Sydney herself didn't. He hadn't missed the cassette that had obviously been removed from the camera, either-but he'd give her that for free. If there were answers on a tape somewhere, she needed them far more than he did-for now, at least.

First of all, though, there was business to finish here. He'd secured the scene, now he had to secure Sydney. So thinking, he pulled out a pair of plastic gloves he kept

handy for occasions just like this and put them on. Once he was sure they were secure, he placed one hand over Hannah Corvays mouth and nose and started counting-he got only a broken seconds grace before it would have been too late. Forever.

Old field Agent instincts kicked in without his understanding why and he threw himself into a roll to the right. What could only have been a Silenced bullet barely bit into his left side, but he wasn't quite fast enough and he felt a rib crack as the bullet did more than tear flesh. He fought down the pain, but the impact knocked him off-course and he fell heavily even as he ripped his pistol from its holster.

His ageing body didn't respond to his minds commands as quickly as it once had, but yet again he didn't die as he rolled across the floor like a log to slam up against the wall of the bedroom and restrict shooter access. He did, though, take a bullet to the lower chest-and this one was serious, he felt it bite into his guts. He realised then that he was dealing with a first-class Marksman, because even at his age he was far from slow and very few people would have been capable of so perfectly placing a disabling bullet the way he was throwing himself around. He'd have tried for his Mobile to call Backup from APO, but knew that he wouldn't live that long if he stopped for the ten seconds he'd need to make the call.

He sat up, forcing his body to respond through sheer willpower as torn muscles screamed in protest in his chest, sweat pouring down his face as age and injury took their toll. If he was really going to die here, after over thirty-five years in the intelligence world walking down hidden corridors, keeping and betraying secrets, killing where he had to and committing every Sin he had to for first his country, then his own sake to enable him to survive and succeed, he was going to die shooting back.

Strange, in so many ways. He'd always thought it would be his old Partner, Jack, who would finally pull the trigger on him. Him, or Sydney Bristow, who had even more reason than her father after he'd lied to and manipulated her and her entire life for seven years without her knowledge, taught her to kill...ha, although she had her father to thank for her Project Christmas training, after all.

He didn't even believe in God, never had, but when one's life came to an end he supposed that such things were just part of the mindset. Not that he was under any illusions as to where he would be going when he died if such a place actually existed. He'd shaken hands with the Devil long, long ago. Him and Irina Derevko, Sydney's mother, that was-unless the ancient stories about Rambaldi's Endgame were true...

He could feel blood pouring down over his trousers from the wound in his side and in his guts, far too much. He could feel his muscles starting to clench involuntarily and release sharply, knew his breathing was accelerating and so was his heartbeat, that there was nothing he could do about it. He was already sweating heavily, the shakes would come next. He was going into shock and was too badly hurt already to fight it-

A dark blur passed by the doorway. He barely glimpsed it, but his reflexes were still good and his pistol snapped up, his trigger finger automatically snapping off two shots. Whatever, _who_ever it had been didn't reappear or make any sound at all, so he knew he'd missed. The shooter had to have been repositioning for the kill shot after he'd managed to change position before he was crippled and dropped, so he was now dead. Well, there were ways to die and reasons to die. Whoever this was, they could have whatever was left of him but they weren't going to take his life.

He raised his pistol one last time, put it in his mouth and made one last wish: that he'd had more time with Nadia. Then his trigger finger began to tighten-

A figure lunged into the room and a sharp kick took his pistol out of his hand, sending it skidding uselessly away across the room, the kick breaking at least three of his fingers in the process. The same foot that had taken his weapon slashed back across and pinned him to the wall upright by the base of his throat, coming within millimetres of crushing his windpipe. Despite that, even as he struggled to breathe, he got his first real look at his attacker as a Silenced pistol was aimed dead centre at his head.

Long-limbed and tall, slim and elegant, compactly muscular and with curves which effectively defined her gender, the young woman he found himself staring at was striking at the least. Waist-length chestnut hair fell in a tightly braided ponytail down her back, leading up to a face featuring fine, aristocratic features which made her classically beautiful in a way that was hard to describe. Full red lips should have dominated her face, but they were almost shadowed by liquid emerald-green eyes flecked with gold, her skin tanned almost golden even as he took in a hint of duskiness the tan nearly hid in her skin.

Jet black skin tight Commando gear and combat webbing made her indistinguishable visually apart from for her looks, but also displayed a fantasy of form by putting a body like hers on display given just how fit she clearly was. The uniform clearly served dual purposes, serving her as protection and equipment, even as a weapon itself when necessary, while also serving as a distraction where any male Agent was concerned.

The flawless, easy way she'd taken down an old hand like him told him everything he needed to know about her skills and professionalism, but there was something more than that to what was happening here. The inexplicable expression on her face that he couldn't understand, for all of his skill at reading people that had kept him alive for decades when violence wouldn't have done the job. The dead cold look in her eyes that he would have wagered good money would have made even Irina take a step backwards, he knew a stone killer when he saw one. There was no hatred there, no anger, no fear, no curiosity, nothing at _all_. It was like locking eyes with the _dead_...

"Allo, Papa" she suddenly said, as though they were having a casual conversation where he wasn't bleeding to death even as he was about to be shot in the head, her strong French accent bleeding across into her every word as she spoke. Sloane's eyebrows shot up as his eyes opened so wide at the words he almost thought he was falling over, his jaw dropping.

He didn't manage to say a word, nor even make a sound, before she shot him twice in the head...

/End of Chapter 19. All Reviews welcomed/.


	21. Chapter 21

Legal disclaimers: see earlier parts.

Disclaimers: see earlier parts.

**The Last Day**

_LA, 2007, two days ago_

Sloane felt his heart stop, for the longest moment of his life, before he realised that the two bullets which should have placed the contents of his skull in the wall behind him had slashed into the wall behind him, less than inch over his head. He blinked, then realised that the woman in front of him was staggering as though she'd been shot, her foot gone from his throat. She lurched drunkenly, fell to one knee and barely caught herself, steadied for a moment and twisted to look at the door. He followed her eyes.

An old woman was standing in the doorway, just the advancing grey in her raven-black hair and the lines on her face telling him that she had to have at least ten years on him, placing her in her mid-to-late sixties. A still-strong body was displayed by close fitting black trousers and a pale white shirt, over which she wore a dark-brown leather duster which looked so out of place he was sure she was only wearing it because it had been convenient. It didn't change the fact that she carried it off, with still-stunning looks, easily.

Despite her age, despite the fact he hadn't seen her in over thirty years, he took one look at her and knew who she was. She hadn't changed much physically, but that wasn't it. Her face was still instantly recognizable from the last time he'd seen her, but that wasn't it either. He'd seen a great many truly, spectacularly beautiful women in his life, even though this old woman would have stood out amongst all of them.

No, what told her in his first heartbeat after he'd been sure he was going to die who she was were her eyes, an impossible, brilliant cobalt-blue that made one believe that what you saw when you looked into them was the last Dawn on the day of Armageddon. Eyes which cut, burnt and even truly hurt on the inside, eyes which were so intelligent, yet so empty, that looking into them made one believe that the owner had died and come back from Hell just for the experience.

That, he would admit, added to the fact that she was holding a gun-she'd been armed and coming at him the last time he'd seen her. This was not an individual one forgot standing in the doorway. He knew her name, but didn't want to say it aloud. In case he drew her attention.

The French woman snarled in anger and tried to bring her gun up, but a second dart was suddenly protruding out of her neck less than inch away from the first one, a projectile that Sloane hadn't even realised was there until the second one struck home. He didn't know what was on the darts, but it was effective, the young Frenchwoman was clearly barely able to move. If she'd been shot with two sedative darts, though, that she was even _conscious_ said a lot about her stamina, resilience and strength of will. Most people he knew would be on the floor with one, Jack Bristow-in his prime-would have been one of very few exceptions Sloane could think of.

A third dart struck on the other side of the French woman's neck, just missing her windpipe and, finally, she fell, collapsing to the floor. He blinked again-then gasped in pain as the two wounds in his chest and his broken fingers reminded him of their existence, the sensations of pain that had been so briefly suspended crashing back into his consciousness like a runaway freight train. He could feel blood soaking into his trousers and shirt, the bullet wound that punched right through his back and out of his guts. He had no doubt he was seriously injured.

Unarmed and so badly injured, whatever the old woman wanted to do _he_ could do nothing about. If she did nothing at all, he was still going to bleed to death. The two men he'd called were en route, but they'd stated they'd arrive in ten minutes and that was a simple fact. In ten minutes, the way he was bleeding out? He'd be dead. He couldn't call APO for a MedEvac, either, under these circumstances, not even with his gift for manipulation and distortion.

He felt the urge to laugh at himself rush up his throat suddenly, but drove it back down, hard. If his "Destiny" really was to discover Rambaldi's Endgame, then he'd been lying to himself for so long that he should just admit his insanity and get it over with. He was going to die here, now, in pain...

"Hello, Arvin. I see you've been shot" said the old woman, walking over to him with an almost supernatural elegance to her movements that almost no woman had any right to, let alone a woman of her age. But then, there _was_ no one else like her, probably never had been in the 500 years since Rambaldi's execution.

"Looks bad, but then gut wounds tend to. Very painful, too, I should know. Do you remember me?" asked the old woman, as though having a chat with a dying man who'd have killed her without hesitation if he'd been healthy and upright, even though they hadn't even seen each other in over three decades, was the most normal thing in the world. Resistance, though, was pointless at this point, so he decided to play along.

"Mavra Kalia Rasputin. Yes, I know you, at one point so did every Intelligence Agency in the western hemisphere, including the KGB, even though you supposedly worked for them-and they all want you dead, still. Even though you _are_ dead. Impressive trick...by the way. Every means of identification at the disposal of every interested party at the time was employed to determine whether or not you were actually dead in South America. They all agreed you were. I don't suppose...you'll tell me how?" Sloane said, being forced to pause twice as he suffered shortness of breath.

"Of course, it was a Clone an American Scientist who owed me a favour cooked up, quite literally. All he needed was a recent sample of my DNA. Don't look so shocked, Arvin, Governments have been working on Cloning programs since the late 40's and you should know that. Did you really think that Nazi Scientists never had the idea of creating a pure Aryan Master Race using just pure DNA during WWII? The technology just didn't exist back then or they'd have succeeded" said Mavra, with a slight chuckle even as Sloane's eyes opened wide.

"Tch, tch, don't look so surprised Arvin, you of all people should know that the US Government has been lying to its people since 1945 about all kinds of things. The first human Clone developed successfully came in 1969, but was just an adult-form piece of meat with no mind of it's own which neither reacted or responded to any form of stimulus. It took until 1975 for them to create one with the mind of a child. By the time mine was needed, the first had fought and died in the first Gulf War-or did you never wonder about where Gulf War Syndrome _really_ came from?" added Mavra, the look she was now aiming at him bordering on contemptuous.

He didn't waste his breath trying to answer her, even though he couldn't meet her eyes. He knew about much worse than that, he was sure she did too. He just wondered why she was even bringing it up. Or was an explanation of her own death a way of demonstrating to him that she was beyond his reach?

"Anyway, as to why I'm here?" Mavra said, steepling her fingers as she rested her elbows on her knees and looked straight down at him. He didn't bother trying to reply, he knew she wasn't asking him to hazard an opinion.

"Two reasons: first, Irina Derevko. I know she's not dead, I know where she is, I know who has her and what they're doing. If she isn't forced to talk, Elena Derevko will never get all the information she needs, so that has to happen. Afterwards, though, I am going to pass you Intel which will allow you to find her. You will _not_ question the source, you _will_ arrange the how. She lives until I say otherwise" said Mavra, her eyes locked with Sloane's.

"Second: stay away from David Webb. I know how your mind works, Arvin, you've guessed just what he's done by now. Touch him or even go near him, so much as set eyes on him? You'll loose parts of your body every day until you're just a head attached to a living limbless torso, then I will feed those parts you have lost to Wolves while you watch. I will place you in a locked glass cage and let the rats in while I sit and watch. Footage of all of this happening will regularly be mailed to everyone you care about. What's left of you after this will be ground up and mixed into tarmac which will be used to build roads in Siberia. Are we clear?" asked Mavra, her voice still conversational.

Sloane just nodded, his face white, part with pain and shock, part with horror. He had no doubt Mavra would do everything she'd stated she would, she was one of the darkest legends the intelligence world had known since the Second World War. But she didn't ultimately need him for any of this yet, Jack would, in fact, be a better option. Why was she, then, telling him all of this?

"In return for you carrying out the tasks you have set me, flawlessly, I will do two things for you. I will save your life and, more importantly, I will give you _her_" said Mavra, glancing over at the unconscious French woman. Oddly, this seemed the most important part of the bargain to Sloane, too.

"I have one question, then. On first meeting, that woman tried...to...kill me. Precisely _what_...can you say or...do...that will prevent her from finishing the...job...when she wakes up?" asked Sloane, breathing with more and more difficulty as the minutes passed. He felt cold and could feel his heart labouring, maybe slowing, his breathing was increasingly coming in short gasps. He didn't have long left, but if she said she could save him? He had to take the chance.

"Her mothers name is Dominique Nagel-Santada. _Her_ name is Seraphine Nagel, although the name she was originally given was Yevgeniya Akim Kasparkova. I wouldn't remind her of that, if I were you. She never took her mothers Husbands name. Ring any bells?" asked Mavra, raising an eyebrow.

Despite himself, Sloane abruptly found himself staring at the young French woman. That _was not possible_...

"Dominique Nagel was in French Intelligence during the Vietnam War. She was captured by the Vietcong in '73 and died in a prison camp in '75. I _saw_ her die after she got a message out asking me to rescue her too late, she was injected with poison even as I was working to infiltrate the camp. Not even _you_ get to tell me she survived _that_" Sloane snapped, his sudden anger surging through him to provide a spurt of energy.

"She didn't, the poison left her brain dead and crippled, they threw her body in a ditch and left what was left of her to rot. She suffocated two days later. That's not the point here, Arvin, the point is how old Seraphine is. Take a good look at her, hazard a guess" said Mavra, her voice cool and calm.

He did, scowling, but still didn't see the point. "Mid thirties, probably. Should I just get on with bleeding to death or is there a point to this?" he snapped, coughing briefly. The last thing he needed, or wanted, was to have someone trying top play mind games with him before he died. Especially given his life.

"She's thirty-five, Arvin, born July 12th 1972, in a backwater city then known as _Saigon_. Do you want to draw you a picture now?" asked Mavra, her voice developing a sneering edge.

Sloane stopped talking for a moment, took a very close at and shook his head. "If your insinuating that I put her on this earth in 1972 because I was drunk and having an Affair after my Wife lost our daughter, you are _extremely_ ill-informed-" he snarled, fully aware of the fact that his activities after his Wife's Miscarriage were not common knowledge. In fact, nobody other than Jack Bristow should have known about that. All of a sudden, he wondered whether or not the Raven had been stationed in Vietnam during the war, too...

"Shut up, idiot, of course I'm not. Her father isn't anyone you'd know and, more to the point, he's still around even though she has very good reason to think him dead. No, Arvin, _she_ has been informed, by a source she would trust her life to, that you _killed_ her father in '75 just before the Evacuation. You didn't, as it happens, but her source has extensive contacts and good reason to believe her Intel. Unfortunately for _her_, all she's actually uncovered is the Cover Story. Seraphine's father made sure there were no other traces or tracks when he died. His Wife and little girl were just steps on his way to high places, but he was made a better offer in '71" Mavra continued, raising a finger for silence.

"To sever all ties with his old life he gave up his Wife and child, sacrificed his parents and his sister, even his family home. His death was so convincing that even his employers, French Intelligence as it happens, didn't so much as investigate it. Seraphine lost her entire family overnight in '75 and if I told you what happened to her after that you wouldn't believe me. Suffice to say after they were done with her, the Vietcong sold her to the Khmer Rouge in '76 and _they_ passed her on to the KGB in '79" said Mavra, a strange expression briefly passing across her face. He was an expert at reading body language and couldn't hope to guess what it meant, not with an individual like _her_...

"She was broken by all three, one after the other, but this is the interesting part. In 1981, she was exposed to the Soviet development of Project: Christmas. More specifically, a targeted program referred to as the Nephilim Protocol. It was and is an Assassination program, designed specifically to remove the conscience and any form of moral restraint while guiding the unconscious mind towards developing the mindset of a killer. Discipline, control, restraint, superior combat skills, stealth, physical strength, stamina, the "whole deal" as you American's say. She was brainwashed and her memory wiped, so that all she would know or remember are the skills and knowledge she was "trained" in" said Mavra, shaking her head.

"It worked, but for one drawback, despite an intense loyalty to the Motherland being built into the Protocol. She was a singular achievement as it turned out, a Protégé who was sent on her first mission at seventeen in 1989. The first thing she did was walk into the French Embassy, identify herself and offer her services. They took her on after confirming her story and clearing her, she worked for the DGSE from 1989 until 2005 as one of their best Minutemen, then Quit and went private for "personal reasons"-it turned out France was the only thing she'd ever loved, but her superiors wouldn't answer her most important question" said Mavra, pausing to shove Sloane momentarily with a toe.

He was too weak to grunt, let alone strike her foot aside, but he filed it away for future reference. If he _did_ live through this, that was...

"She wanted the man who killed her father, because she hunted down her mothers killers on her twenty-first birthday and butchered them. She's been given you" said Mavra, pausing for effect. Then she leant forwards and pressed a piece of paper into his left hand she produced from somewhere so quickly he didn't even register the movement.

"That's his name, find out who and where and you'll have her. As for the rest, did you know my Grandfather discovered Rambaldi's Ark in 1896?" she asked, her tone now teasing. Sloane didn't even want to think about what expression he must have had on his face given her reaction to looking at him when she said those words.

"He found something else, too..." she continued, reaching a hand out towards the wound in his side. Even as her hand reached past his ruined clothes and touched his skin, Slone almost glimpsed some kind of odd shift in the air around her hand...

Y

Sydney Bristow threw cold water in her face again, then again, even managing to swallow some, in an effort to clear her head. She was a wreck and she was starting to look like it, no matter how hard she tried to ignore the fact. Her eyes were showing shadows which displayed lack of real sleep, her hair was tangled, her lips were dry and her throat felt as though she'd swallowed a hot curry straight out of the oven. Her appearance, when she'd last dared look in a mirror, had been best described as haggard, her shoulders slumped, her normal upright posture at best lacking as she supported herself on the sink. Her makeup was long since gone, so she could clearly tell just how pale her face was and, worse, just how haunted her eyes were now.

None of that mattered for the moment, she _had_ to keep going. If she didn't find the answer to whatever was doing this either her mind or her sanity was simply going to snap. There were no two ways about it, she knew how her own mind worked and right now she could feel all of the edges fraying.

She'd made some progress, though, even if not of the kind she'd hoped. Having seen the video that she'd taken from Hannah Corvay's apartment, beginning to end, she now knew one thing for certain: somebody had wiped it, somebody who knew exactly how to make sure footage couldn't be recovered. She'd determined that for certain with a physical examination of the tape, which had revealed the fact that the tape inside the cartridge had been doused with very light doses of acid.

Something in the back of her head told her that _she'd_ done it. Some part of her was either trying to protect her from herself, even if she didn't know why, or because whatever she'd learnt had been facts she didn't want to consciously remember.

She already knew that the CIA had known where she was from the time she'd been taken-although _how_ she'd found that out was a question she wasn't so sure she wanted answered. She'd known the access codes for Director-Level access, but didn't even know what they were or how. What _else_ did she know, _could_ she know or have access to, while she was "away"?!

She had so many questions she didn't have answers to that she felt as though she'd been walking in circles since she'd come back from the dead. If she'd been banging her head against a brick wall, literally, for a whole day she didn't doubt she'd have less of a headache. She didn't know where to start-and, for her, the ever capable Sydney Bristow, that very fact was almost as frightening as the fact she'd simply lost two years of her life.

She _did_ know who she wanted to slap the life out of, though. Kendall was just one FBI Agent-_but_, he was Director of Project Black Hole, the focus of which was exclusively on artefacts which originated with Rambaldi. He'd told her himself that she'd recovered over half of the CIA's Rambaldi collection and this meant that he would have a _very_ specific interest in her and her activities. That meant that, contrary to what she'd originally thought with more of the pieces to put together, he would have known that the CIA knew she was alive at very least. In fact, he would more than likely have known her location as well.

He'd had the nerve to say that they'd gotten to know each other better while he'd been her Handler for the time she'd been "away". If he _really_ had, he'd have known to at least hint to her that there was more he wasn't saying she needed to know when he'd given her a breakdown of what happened during her missing time. He'd have known that to not even try to tell her everything would earn him a beating when she tracked him down to learn the rest, which she was going to have to do now.

Unless...he _did_ hint to her that there was more in the only way he could while being monitored by the CIA, by giving her only the bare bones of what had happened when he'd know she'd want as much detail as possible? Maybe because she needed to find out the truth by _herself_? She felt a shiver run through her at just the thought. Just what _had_ she done, been involved in, while she'd been "away"?

Thinking that, she was reminded of the DVD she'd been given by Monica. It was still in her DVD player, just sitting there, waiting to be watched. Given just what Monica and she appeared to have been to each other while she was "away"? Given the fact that she'd evidently had such a hold on the other woman that, even now, she was watching her back, even though she clearly knew Sydney had no memory of their time together? She was fooling herself if she thought there _weren't_ answers to be had.

For one thing, almost as important to her as anything, just how far down had she sunk that she'd even consider going so far as to Seduce a _woman_ just to maintain her Cover? Maybe even her safety? Hadn't there been any _men_ available apart from Simon Walker? Did she want an answer to that at _all_?!

A part of her mind she did her best to ignore reminded her that, if it had been Anna Espinoza, her old sparring partner from the now-defunct K-Directorate, she might _just_ have been tempted to act on it. The number of years they'd been up against each other, crossed swords and duelled mind and body? The variety of faces and identities they'd both worn against each other? Hell, that time in London when she and Anna had gone head to head and Anna, wearing that bright red well-fitted dress which had been so distracting Sydney had barely been able to take her eyes off of the woman, had saluted her with her wine glass before the game began again?

She and Anna knew each other like very few Agents ever would _because_ they'd been up against each other for so long, both at the very top of their game, rather than because of any social contact they'd had. She'd truly believed that, even considering her old Partner Marcus Dixon, if she and Anna had ever been honestly partnered? It would have been a lot easier to list what they _couldn't_ do than _could_. The Knight of Rambaldi and the Chosen One together...

She forced her mind back on track, turned on the DVD and waited for it to play. She tried to imagine that it could show anything, would show anything, that she could expect anything and everything, but that was a logical impossibility. So she just sat down and waited.

Later, she'd never be able to say whether or not what she saw answered her questions or not. What she _would_ say is that it raised several new one's.

The first scene that appeared was that of Monica Messolina's face, which made Sydney blink. However, the close distance and the angle, not to mention the picture, made it clear that the footage came from a digital video camera. The camera pulled back to reveal that Monica was wearing a dark-brown jacket and pale cream shirt, her hair tied back behind her in a loose ponytail. Beyond her, aged solid stone walls that appeared to be running with water led to what appeared to be a prison gate, heavy steel with a long horizontal peephole that was clearly locked shut. At the bottom of the gate a shutter that was nine inches long and six high was evident, also shut.

Sydney suddenly realised that her hands were trembling and clenched them tight. The tears that threatened to fall were harder to control, but she wouldn't let them fall. She had no memory of this place, but she still recognised it. She always would. There was only one place this _could_ be.

"_I always knew your name wasn't Julia Catherine Thorne, although not that it was Sydney Anne Bristow, but I was supposed to be the only one who knew. I knew what they'd done to you, too, even what they were __**trying**__ to do, although I wasn't supposed to. Or so I believed at the time. I didn't like the sound of it at all, especially since...well, ask me that in person. Lets just say I have good reason not to appreciate __**anyone**__ trying to Brainwash and Reprogram another human being. Particularly a woman. So I made it my business to find out what was actually happening. This is what I found_" came Monica's voice-she wasn't speaking to the camera, Sydney realised, so she must have added the voiceovers later.

Monica rotated the camera to face the door, then she reached up and opened the peephole with a solid thunk of steel on steel. The camera moved to the very edge of the peephole, peered in-and Sydney felt a shock that almost literally knocked her out of her chair.

A woman was crouched in the corner furthest from the door on the left side of a room which had to be forty feet of bare concrete and cold stone in all directions. A bucket for necessities was clearly all the relief she was being provided with. She was wearing a tattered light-blue jumpsuit, but was barefoot. Chestnut hair, thin and almost ragged, covered her face as she hid by wedging her head into her knees and wrapping her arms around them. Sydney didn't need to guess who the woman was, despite that. Her whole body started to shake uncontrollably.

A Mars bar, of all things, was produced and tossed through the hatch an easy ten feet. For several long moments the woman in the corner didn't move, as though she was afraid to-then she suddenly sprang to her feet, bolted towards the Mars bar, laid hands on it by literally diving atop it and tore the wrapper off, wolfing it down as though she hadn't even seen food for a year. She looked up at the door briefly-and Sydney got a good look at _herself_.

Her skin was tight on her body, her muscles much less evident, her hair thin and reedy, she looked emaciated and her lips were bone-dry, torn. She looked gaunt, her bones were far too evident... All the signs of starvation and malnutrition. Plus she was clearly twitchy, jumpy, ready to bolt in a heartbeat.

She was willing to bet that the jumpsuit concealed evidence of where IV lines had been driven into her body to force drugs into her system, as well as marks of torture and physical abuse. The kind of _psychological_ abuse she had to have suffered to have broken her down into such a state, to those kinds of extremes...

She was suddenly very glad she wasn't holding or touching anything she could easily break, even as she finally lost her control and felt tears start to run down both cheeks. She'd always wondered just how awful it had _really_ been for her, now she was seeing evidence with her own eyes. _God..._what had the bastards _done_ to her?

"_This is mid 2003, after you had been held in captivity for roughly six months. I didn't find out until after you managed to Extract yourself three months later and told me yourself just what they'd been doing to you in their efforts to break you. If I'd known sooner, I would have gutted Oleg with my bare hands and given you his heart as a birthday present. I can't imagine how seeing this might make you feel, or think, but I believe that you deserve some kind of record so that you know, regardless_" said Monica. Then the screen went black.

When the picture came back, it was just that. A picture, of a young woman she didn't know.

Twenty to twenty-five years old, curly very deep and dark black hair that was easily waist length, olive skin evident despite the poor quality of the photograph, which was practically black and white. A degree of slender, shapely physical beauty and development with aristocratic lines that...defied description as a combination of Roman and Slavic blood created something extraordinary. Five eight tall-and those _eyes_...cobalt blue and cutting, so penetrating and absorbing, so rich with intelligence...and something _else_. When one stepped back and took in the whole picture, it was almost as though she couldn't lock eyes with a _photograph_.

Sydney tore her eyes away from the woman's face and tried to take in the whole of the picture. The woman was seated in a grey metal chair, one leg crossed over the other but both spread wide, both arms almost casually thrown back on the chairs armrests. Despite what had to be prison greys, despite the fact the solid stone small room the picture had been taken in was clearly a cramped prison cell, the woman looked almost bored.

Without even trying she _owned_ the picture, even the room, Sydney could tell that just from looking at her face. The sense of presence the woman so casually displayed came across even through the poor quality picture. On top of which, the way she was so casually displaying herself told Sydney this was a woman who had absolutely no worries to truly concern her even though she was in jail.

It took Sydney a long minute to realise that she'd been staring at the picture with such intensity that she'd memorised it without even knowing what she was doing. It took her longer to realise that she'd barely breathed in since laying eyes on the _woman_, not the picture. She was so _familiar_...

...She blinked. Had she just lost time? Why had she been thinking of spinning, shining golden lights so suddenly? It didn't matter, she decided firmly. This woman? She had to know who she was. But, given the circumstances, did she dare ask Marshall, even? A woman like Monica Messolina, if Sydney was any judge of character, didn't casually pass on or give out information _ever_... Which reminded her that there was likely a vocal Intel brief attached. She just hoped she hadn't missed it, lost in her own thoughts.

"_By now, you've passed beyond the stage of being thunderstruck and even shell-shocked to the point that you believe you know this woman, even though you, of course, can't remember her. You do know her, although I don't know myself how you first met. What I __**do**__ know is that she is, somehow, ultimately responsible for your loss of memory. Before you ask, no, it wasn't forced, I know that much, you asked her to do it...whatever "it" was. "Why" is a question I am afraid only you can answer_" said Monica's voice, before pausing for a moment.

"_Therefore, you want to know about her, but just knowing this woman __**exists**__ is dangerous, so make sure to repeat to __**no-one**__ what you hear here. I am as serious as poison in your veins just before it stops your heart, Sydney. If what I say now reaches any ears but yours everyone you care about will die, followed by both __**you**__ and __**me**__. That said, let us begin_" said Monica, before pausing, with an audible-and clearly nervous-intake of breath.

"_Her given name is Mavra Kalia Rasputin, although you should know she's better known as the Raven. She was born in Leningrad in 1940 and, at birth, was nicknamed The Daughter of the Demon as a result of her father's rumoured activities in the 1930's, added to which she's actually the Mad Monks Granddaughter. After that, her history becomes patchy and hard to follow, but what is certain is that she lost an older brother in 1945, then both of her parents died in 1954 under circumstances that nobody will discuss over half a century later._

_She was taken in by the State and put through some kind of accelerated "Extraordinary Training" program, which she graduated from at 18. This was carried out at the Novgorod training facility in Siberia and was, according to records recovered since by the CIA, referred to as "Project: Wolfheart". Graduates were referred to as "White Wolves", the Schools Director as the "Dire Wolf", the Project Base as "Home Ground". What it entailed I don't know, since the CIA doesn't and, it seems, because the KGB purged the entire Project and all affiliated in 1991 just before the collapse of the USSR in 1991, but I'll try to put it in context for you. _

_The Project was initiated in 1945 on the direct Orders of Stalin to create Deep Cover Agents and Assassins to be planted or used abroad or internally as necessary to help foment the Socialist Revolution he was sure was coming after what he considered to be the Allied defeat during WWII. This was because without Russia absorbing so much of the strength of the Nazi war machine from 1941 he was convinced Britain would have been overrun and the USA would never have entered the War in the European theatre after defeating Japan. This might not make sense to you or me, but the man was a believer and, everyone knows, not entirely sane._

_From 1945 to 1991, over a period of forty-six years, a total of 2,000 individuals were put through the training that created "Graduates" of Project: Wolfheart. Over half didn't survive the training, half of the survivors were left so psychologically damaged they could best be described as Psychopaths and ended up being recruited either into the mainline KGB for Special Projects or into the Spetsnaz. Of the surviving quarter of the original "Student" body, only one hundred were ultimately recruited. The others died in a Gulag because they knew too much._

_Mavra was the __**only**__ trainee who was not only recruited but came out the other end with a Commendation from both her Project Director and the Novgorod Supervisor. I hope this hopes you understand something more about the woman_" said Monica, her voice tight, as though she was worried about being overheard.

"_I could go on and on about where she's been and what she's done, but I suspect you'll find out yourself indirectly. There are certain critical things you need to know, though._

_First of all, this picture was taken in 1963 in the Lubyanka jail. She was on trial for Treason at the time, but was eventually cleared. It's the __**only**__ existing picture of her, she reportedly managed to wipe everything held about her by the KGB from their electronic systems in 1990 and stole every photograph in their files. This picture was checked out by a member of the Politburo at the time, which is the only reason it exists. Don't ever ask me how I got a copy of it, just make sure you memorise it._

_Second, she disappeared in 1990 then turned up dead in 1992, very convincingly I might add. She __**isn't**__. I know because both you and I have met her long since, as I'm sure you understand from what I've told you. __**DO NOT**__ advertise this fact. Even people she likes have been found, eventually, after all of the parts have been matched up and teams of Surgeons have puzzled out how such things could be done to living human beings._

_Third, __**she**__ recruited Irina Derevko into the KGB in 1970. If anyone can track her down or make contact with her, Irina can. Those two were inseparable in the late 80's in Afghanistan, according to those who'd know. As I create this message I understand that you have good reason to believe your mother dead, but I have __**better**__ reason to believe her alive. I'm looking for her, but suspect you will have more luck. Find her, you find Mavra, you find the answers I have no doubt nobody else can give you_" said Monica, the last words being spoken so softly Sydney was puzzled until she glimpsed the nude body of a woman with a silver knife in hand in her minds eye.

Oddly, it didn't disturb her or make her feel ill any longer to think about what she'd half-remembered. In fact, she was starting to wish she could remember the rest. Monica seemed more and more like someone she'd have _liked_ to know in reality-although that was only based on what she knew of the woman so far. On the other hand, that did include seeing the woman kill three men with her bare hands, two so quickly and cleanly that she hadn't even realised it had happened until after the fact. Why didn't _that_ disturb her so much any longer, either? It should have-shouldn't it?

"_In conclusion, I wish you luck. A final warning is necessary, though: the Rasputin line is everything history would have you believe, Sydney, worse, even. Mavra is rumoured to be more insane than even her father and grandfather and I believe it, which makes her hideously unpredictable and more dangerous than anybody can imagine, apart from maybe Irina. If you find her__** without**__ Irina... I can't be clear enough in saying this. Be as careful as you would be if you were dealing with the Devil himself but-and I quote Mavra here-don't run, you'll only die tired. Good luck._

_By the way, this DVD has been erasing itself as it plays. This is a once-only briefing, but since I hated Mission Impossible, if not Tom Cruise, it will not blow up and destroy your DVD player. Goodbye for now, Julia_" said Monica, then the DVD ended and the screen went black. This time, it stayed that way. The name she used at the end, Sydney was sure, was deliberate. A woman like Monica wouldn't misspeak like that. Ever.

But, Monica knew her mother? That was the only reason she would refer to Irina by her first name? More to the point, it was possible Irina-her mother- was _alive_?! _**No**_. Her father wouldn't lie to her about something like _that_..._would_ he?

Where was she even supposed to _start_ with something like this, even assuming she could verify all of it?! Monica had stated she was possibly dealing with matters that went back sixty-two _years_-?!

She hadn't heard the door open, the alarm hadn't gone off and she hadn't heard footsteps. More to the point, the front door had been locked. That all _should_ have made fingers suddenly running through her loose hair so disturbing that she would, normally, have leapt out of her chair, punched whoever it was so hard that he or she would have been staggered at least, giving her time to grab a weapon of some sort, then she would have attacked and fought whoever it was until one of them was dead or unconscious. That _should_ have been what happened.

Instead, as though her body remembered when her mind didn't, she relaxed, leaning her head back into the hands of the figure behind her. The skilled fingers expertly separated the strands of her hair and curled it around fingers before reaching out and pulling it all back behind her ears, tracing across her scalp with a deliciously light touch that sent sensual tingles directly into her brain. The fingertips traced across her cheeks, down over throat, just missing her windpipe, ending up on her collarbone, although somehow she wasn't worried by that.

She'd thrown off everything but her skirt and her shirt when she'd gotten back to her apartment, kicked off her shoes and sat down once she'd been able to calm herself down enough to think things through with a clear head. As the fingers traced over her skin to the front of her shirt, gently undid the top two buttons and caressed the tops of her breasts before moving to massage her shoulders with a strong, firm grasp that instantly made tension almost literally flee her body, she felt her eyes start to slip closed.

"Hello, Monica" she said aloud, not needing to look around or even guess at who it was. She couldn't have said how, but she just _knew_.

"Hello, Julia" replied Monica's sensual voice-a bedroom voice, if ever Sydney had heard one. "Where would you like to start...?" she asked.

Y

Sloane realised that he had to have passed out, no matter what Mavra had done, when he came to only to find her gone. The young Frenchwoman who had tried to kill him was still in the room, though, her breathing slow and steady, her colour good. The darts were gone from her throat, too. He checked his watch, realised he didn't know exactly when he'd been brought down and made a best guess of seven minutes having passed, including the time since he'd evidently passed out.

He gently moved a hand down to his wounds, only to discover that his broken fingers functioned perfectly despite the total lack of any medical treatment he knew of. More disturbing was the reason he wasn't suffering from any pain, the fact that the wound in his chest was simply gone, front and back, there wasn't even a twinge from internal damage. There wasn't even a blemish on his skin, it was as though the injury just hadn't _happened_...

He breathed in deeply, sat up straight and stood up, bracing himself against the wall behind him until he was sure that his legs would support him. They did, easily, as though he'd never had reason to worry. He might know very nearly all there _was_ to know about Rambaldi and his work, but he'd never heard about any of the mans artefacts allowing something like _this_ to be done. When he got the chance, it seemed there was considerably more research needing to be done on the Rambaldi Ark. Of course, he'd have to be very careful nobody realised what he was really up to, as usual.

He glanced down at Seraphine Nagel-should he get used to referring to her by name or just kill her now? Then he looked over at Hannah Corvay. That one was easy, he'd burn down her apartment with her inside if he had to. Of course, if there was a way to work this, maybe he could prove a point?

He reached for his phone-but a scrap of paper on the table next to the bed caught his attention. He walked over to it and picked it up. A call number, a satellite phone number. He frowned, the number seemed strangely familiar, had he seen it somewhere before? Above the number, though, written in a flowing script, were words that only Mavra could have written. It was a warning to call the number immediately...

He heard Seraphine's breathing suddenly accelerate behind him as she woke up, so turned to face her as she rose to her hands and knees, shaking her head to clear it. Then she saw him, even as the number rang-and the door opened, the two men he'd called finally arriving. Both men took one look at the scene and went for concealed weapons within seconds of stepping inside-

Seraphine rolled right over on the spot and came upright facing them with twin throwing knives in her hands from concealed wrist sheaths worked into her uniform. Both of her hands snapped forwards before the men's weapons had cleared their belts and the knives struck home in both men's hearts, sinking into the chest almost up to the hilt in both cases, before either of them could aim.

One staggered backwards into the wall with a grunt, stared stupidly at the knife in his chest then collapsed without another sound. The second man, bigger and stronger, almost managed to raise his gun to aim-but his last act was to pull the trigger and shoot the bed before he fell and collapsed against the door with a heavy thud. The crack of gunfire echoed regardless and Sloane winced, that was going to require some fast talking and excellent lying. Fortunately, of course, he excelled at both-and he'd managed to dial the number on his backup Clean phone.

Seraphine turned to face him without even a pause after killing both men and he found himself staring down the barrel of a Glock .45, but he looked her dead in the eyes regardless. If he was going to make this work, he had to be sure that she knew he was utterly, deadly serious from the start.

"This is how your life ends, Arvin Sloane, oui?" she almost snarled. He didn't bother answering as his phone stopped ringing and a voice suddenly came on-a mans voice, the voice of someone who sounded about his age...

"That depends. Would you recognise your fathers voice if you heard it, Seraphine Nagel?" he replied, holding the phone out to her and putting it on Speaker.

He had to admit it, she was good. Her face didn't change at all and her eyes only widened to such a degree he doubted many people other than him, with his gift for seeing every hint of body language and character in just a persons movements, would have noticed it. Even though he knew he'd struck a nerve by using what was clearly her real name.

What _did_ make her entire face twist and her eyes narrow to slits was the evidently irate older mans voice coming from Sloane's phone. She snatched it out of his unresisting hand with her free hand, took it off Speaker and snapped a quick question in French. Whatever the answer was, he wasn't sure if it was what she'd been expecting or not, but suspected that he'd gained the desired result when she threw the phone at the wall so hard it both shattered and stuck in, then smashed it almost _through_ the wall with a savage kick which he was sure shifted several of the stones of the wall.

She turned to stare at him, looked at Hannah Corvay on the floor, looked at him again-then let out an ear-piercing scream of frustration and anger that he was sure should have damaged the windows, even though he made sure not to react to it. Then she suddenly holstered her weapon, turned on him and, even though they were about the same height, wrenched him up to her face with such force he was left on tiptoe.

"How...how did you know? That he was alive? That he _is_? How _could_ you know that only _that_ mans voice would make me listen to you? HOW?!" Seraphine literally screamed in his face, clearly so angry she was likely to try throwing him through a window if she couldn't find anything more convenient. He had to talk fast to calm her down.

"Very easily, because I didn't kill him. I did know your mother, yes, we had an Affair, yes, but your father didn't abandon the two of you for _that_, he had his own plans. He does now. The question is not, then, how do I know, it's what are _you_ going to do? I can tell you could slaughter me if you wanted to, I suspect I couldn't stop you if I tried, but I ask you to _think_. What did I possibly have to gain from what happened? What _could_ I have gained? You've done your research, I'm sure, you know about Rambaldi. Why would I even care about your mother and you considering that?" asked Sloane, speaking quickly and clearly. He could tell that she was on a knife edge, he had to make sure she fell the right way...

"You wouldn't. D'accord, you would gain _nothing_ from what happened. But..._she_ would not lie to _me_" snapped Seraphine, her anger still evident, but she seemed calmer. He was making progress.

"Is "she" an Intelligence Agent who has been keeping, guarding and stealing secrets for the past thirty-six years? Is "she" someone who would see through the "death" of a professional who wished to disappear when she was still a young woman herself? Is "she" someone who might have her own reasons for wanting me dead?" asked Sloane, carefully, leading Seraphine down the right road by the path of least resistance. It was always most effective when they came to the same conclusion he had themselves, especially when he'd fed it to them without their knowledge on the way.

"No, she was never an Agent. She had a different...speciality, but you are correct. It is possible she would _not_ know everything you do. So I will say this" said Seraphine, letting go of him at last. He dusted himself down and adjusted his tie as though he was nearly killed every day, making sure what he was thinking did not show on his face or in his eyes.

"I offer you the deal I offered her, in return for what I have to know. I will do whatever you require, without question or hesitation. In payment, you will give me what I want. Once we are done, we can either renegotiate or go our separate ways. Is this satisfactory?" asked Seraphine, holding out a hand for him to shake.

"Completely. Where do you want to start?" replied Sloane, taking and shaking her hand. He'd done it, his own Minuteman...

"Here. I will deal with Hannah Corvay, she lives but says nothing. My former Employers identity will remain Confidential, but anything other information I may possess which you require is yours for the asking. I need only your first Order if this is agreed?" asked Seraphine. Sloane suspected she knew she'd just indirectly told him her former Employers name, but it didn't matter now.

"Done. As a matter of fact, there is something I need dealing with immediately..." he began.

/End of Chapter 20. All Reviews welcomed/.


	22. Chapter 22

Legal disclaimers: see earlier parts.

Disclaimers: see earlier parts.

**The Last Day**

_Washington DC, 2007, two days ago_

Lia Zheng-Mai, better known by the only name she would answer too, _Silver_, hadn't worn good quality clothes in sixteen years. In fact, she hadn't had a shower in the same length of time, drunk anything but stolen alcohol or water from any available source, eaten rich food...

The list went on for a good, long time. None of it mattered, of course, she could live without any of it. _But_, that didn't mean she wouldn't indulge on occasion just so she could sample the taste of fine wine and rich, sweet foods. It didn't mean that she didn't enjoy the feel of silk on skin, the feel of smooth skin sliding against her own.

That was why, standing upright and still in front of the mirror in her hotel room, she had spent the last five minutes simply smoothing down the silken sea-green dragon dress that had been delivered for her, merely enjoying the sensation. Before that she'd soaked and cleaned herself thoroughly in the shower, brushed her hair through again and again so that it finally sat straight and smooth and enjoyed cleaning her teeth. The new scents that the manufacturers had come up with since she'd had to go away... It was entertaining, really. People actually thought all of this, making money, that it all _meant_ something in the end.

She'd see what happened to people who thought they mattered after six years in Afghanistan with the Red Army. They died before everyone else, because in War the last thing anybody wanted to see was success. The people who ran away screaming every time tended to live the longest, just because soldiers found them entertaining. Particularly the women, on many occasions. She should know, she'd helped.

The hotel was, at least, up to standard. Five star luxury, with a large, soft bed, walls painted a light blue to relax one, a bathroom with shower, kitchen, even a study. A Laptop computer was available, which she'd worked out how to use after ten minutes. She'd used it to catch up on what she'd missed out on over the past sixteen years-and discovered, not at all to her surprise, that while leaders had changed the regimes and the secrets were all the same.

If she and her brothers ever wanted to go work as Mercenaries, she could find them work anywhere in the world. With their "qualifications", they could have demanded gold and diamonds and received them in payment. Assuming, of course, that Red Room Assassins weren't still out to hunt them all down after sixteen years-and how likely was that? _Not_, was the answer. The Agents after them were the type who'd try to complete a mission at the age of eighty, blind, deaf and bleeding to death. They'd _never_ stop, so Perfect Dark would just have to stay one step ahead, like always.

She studied herself in the long mirror again. The dress left her left leg mostly bare, revealing the few small, almost-faded scars on it, all because it was slit to the hip that side to guarantee ease of movement, but it fell almost to her feet and easily covered both her arms. Her throat was exposed, making the old Garrotte wound evident just below where her head and neck joined, but it was mostly faded and wouldn't draw the eye. The brilliant green dress highlighted her eyes as the late sunlight made them turn a slick silver, almost like mercury. She liked that, even though she had no idea why her eyes tended to "shimmer", for lack of a better word. Well, _maybe_ no idea...

Making the decision, she turned and walked out of the room, striding along the corridor to the elevator. Her brothers were already there.

Erik Black, the bigger of the two, was dressed in a white t-shirt which looked likely to rip if he flexed his muscles. He was wearing black jeans and heavy steel-toed boots which looked like lethal weapons on him. He never smiled, he wasn't now and, when he frowned, even Silver found it a good idea to get out of the way. Erik on a rampage tended to leave large vehicles unrecognisable when he was through with them-unless he had one of his episodes, when he'd often go to work on the scenery as well, along with anyone he could catch. Properly handled, he could be very useful.

Tuomas D'Serve, the smaller of the two, looked like what he was while immaculately groomed in a jet black dinner suit, white shirt and black tie: Death. The most competent, effective Assassin the Project had ever produced, trying to describe just how lethal he was was akin to trying to describe to sand how a human drowned in water, in that the subject never could or would understand. If he wanted to kill somebody, they were dead, there was no more to it.

He'd gotten the scars all over his body during the years he'd spent doing what he considered "training", she knew. That was to say, tracking down and slaughtering all of the most dangerous fighters in the world he could, every scar a mark of respect from him to whoever he killed. The fact that he was still alive after twenty-five years of doing so laid out the reason-he was testing himself, all of the time, to make sure that he was always the blood on the very thin edge of the blade.

There _was_ no killer on Earth superior to Tuomas, but only his brother and sister knew that. For the very simple reason that for all those he'd fought or met in all the years he'd been fighting, nobody had gotten close to ripping off the jet-black "Reaper" skull mask he wore in public. Nobody but his family, at all, knew what he actually looked like. Well, until now anyway.

They walked into the elevator when it arrived and rode it down before stepping out and walking into the dining room, a huge, richly decorated area with two glass walls that could easily have seated a hundred people. Right now, it held half that, including the people they were there to meet. They moved as a unit as they walked, her leading with Tuomas on her left and Erik on her right. They caught sight of their targets immediately-because they were in a corner, backs to the wall with a clear line of sight across the whole room.

She was satisfied with that much ability, at least. If they hadn't shown that much basic grasp of strategy, she'd have killed their leader to get the point across. After all, killing the foot soldiers never got through to the leaders. That, she knew from hard, old experience.

There were four of them. Peyton, two heavies in dark suits who had to be Bodyguards and an older man. The two men were ex-Special Forces, from the way they held themselves and their eyes took in everything in a way which said they were analysing everyone and everything in sight regarding levels of danger. She knew the type, vicious and particularly ruthless killers who would throw grenades into crowded rooms to get one target, yet be able to kill a General in the middle of his own army silently and without being seen during the day.

Peyton herself was a different matter. She reminded the woman known as Silver of herself, cool, calm, collected and possessed of the kind of truly lethal competence that only another Predator would recognise. Highly intelligent, intuitive and with skills that were hard to explain, they were both from that rare stock that the real killers and secrets of the world came from, with a capacity for violence and thinking combined that made them so much _more_ than any other's... Plus, Peyton's well-fitted black dress showed off her long-limbed, willowy frame to perfection.

The old man was in his early sixties at least, with thinning grey hair shot through with traces of black, a thick beard and moustache, grey eyes and a lined face that made him look ten years older. His shoulders were still straight, thought, his body still lean with muscle and, evidently displayed by a close-fitting charcoal-grey suit and tied over a pale cream shirt, he still carried no excess weight. His eyes, though, told of the man on the inside.

Cool, sharp and with just a trace of something colder than ice barely hidden behind the eyes, she knew the man for a Speaker when she saw him, the man who fronted the people Peyton would be working for directly. Men who got his job didn't break, never failed and never, ever left a mess behind, the final word in professionalism. They were also, without question, likely to be more intelligent than the next ten people combined. To hold the job at his age, the man in front of her was something more exceptional than that, too.

She'd never heard of a Speaker older than fifty because they often needed to be able to take care of themselves physically, but something told her this man could have stopped a gun from going off just by looking in the eyes of the person holding it. She also had her doubts that, even at his age, he was anywhere near as frail as he appeared. A man who used his brain before his body but was, in her opinion, very capable of carving through anyone he needed to when he had to. People like that, in her experience, were the worst of the worst, the monsters most deserving of the word.

Peyton was dangerous, but it was the old man she was going to keep her eye on. If he got into her head she suspected she'd never get him out. The three of them sat down and waited for the old man to begin.

"So" began the old man, his voice a thick Texan drawl, "Perfect Dark itself, or at least what's left of it, sitting down in front of me. I'd say this was a surprise, but I stopped being surprised forty years ago. What I say now is, you really think your everything you were sixteen years after the fact?" he asked.

"To which I say, you don't actually know anything about us, do you? Not even about the Project, say? We _are_ having this conversation privately, yes?" replied Silver, sharply.

"Course. Maybe I don't. Maybe I _do_. KGB was kind of keen to make sure you and yours never existed, so keen they seem to have killed pretty much everyone you knew or who knew you. Fact is, though, they didn't get them all. More to the point, don't reckon they knew everything they _thought_ they knew about you. What you think?" replied the old man.

"I don't "think" anything, I _know_ why the Project imploded, where it came from, why _and_ what we are. The dead had nowhere else to go, we chose to believe there could be more. We're still here, so I think we've proved our point" replied Silver.

"That you have, to a point. Best I can tell, though, you haven't answered the question. Sixteen years away is a _long_ time, sister, what's the difference for you and yours that _really_ makes you so special? I've had the vanilla version, now I want the hard core slant, no holds barred" said the old man.

"You couldn't handle the truth if I handed it to you on a glass slide and told you how to dissect it after reading through the instructions with a microscope, but I'll give it a try. You know about the Tunguska Event, yes?" asked Silver.

The old man raised an eyebrow. She was curious as to how much he really knew about what she was going to tell him, suspected some, but not all. It was always...interesting, seeing peoples reactions to hearing the full story for the first time.

"I've heard of it. Massive explosion causing devastation for miles in all directions over Siberia in 1908, nobody knows the exact cause, suspected Meteorite or Comet low-level explosion or impact. So remote that all anyone ever found was a crater, or so I've read. Why?" replied the old man.

"It was a Comet impact event, but the people and government of the time didn't have the understanding or technology to take in, let alone explain, what they'd seen and experienced. That was the beginning. Do you want me to go on?" asked Silver.

"Please do. I find myself...curious" said the old man, leaning forwards to stare at her more intently.

"The Tsar never paid much attention to the impact, just another disaster he had to deal with in a Russian Empire so corrupt and backwards he'd already barely survived an attempted revolt three years earlier. He was overthrown in 1917, but with the Civil War and the anarchy that followed, nobody got around to looking into just what had actually happened out there until 1928. That was when _we_ started" Silver continued, the old man's eyes now looking directly into hers. Neither of them tried to break contact.

"Fragments of the Comet had been scattered over the entire blast area by the impact and explosion, but when it was discovered that the fragments had some very unusual affects on humans and other mammals...well, steps had to be taken" Silver continued, pausing as a Waitress came up to their table. She ordered a strong coffee, black, no sugar. The old man ordered a Cappuccino. They were the only one's to order anything. So much trust was on display she almost felt like laughing.

"Go on, then what?" asked the old man. She was sure of it now, he already knew chunks of the story. She was just filling in the gaps.

""Volunteers" were dragged out of the Gulags and forced to search the entire area of the blast, collecting every piece there was to be found. Most died, some...changed and had to be killed. Eventually, all of the fragments were gathered and buried in cold storage in a cave in Siberia, in 1930" continued Silver, before pausing to sip her coffee. The way she said the word "Volunteers", she knew, made it sound like dying of Bubonic Plague was a better fate. In her opinion, it would have been.

"They dynamited the entrance and left it all behind...until 1939 and rumours of a Nazi Nuclear bomb being built reached Stalin. He knew that Russian industry simply wouldn't catch up with the Nazi's in time, mad as he was, so he needed another option. A member of the original expedition to Tunguska had survived to reach his inner circle and mentioned the...changes...that occurred when people were exposed to the fragments. That man found himself leading an expedition to retrieve the fragments with the help of fresh "Volunteers" from the Gulags. They recovered the fragments, but over two thirds of the expedition didn't make it back, including its leader" said Silver, shaking her head slowly.

"People exposed to the fragments changed unpredictably, though. Mutation, illness, Psychosis, physical augmentation of every sort you can imagine, including the growth of new limbs. What _didn't_ vary, though, was the fact that everyone exposed to the fragments went utterly insane and never recovered. They were all executed and the bodies burnt. They kept trying, until the Nazi's invaded in 1941. Then they went back to work in 1945, in an attempt to create "improved" humans to aid in the spread of Communism across the world. They kept trying until 1949, with no success" said Silver, quietly. She took a greater sip of tea this time, burning her lips, but it was a good way to distract herself from what she was talking about. _Very_ bad memories.

"The Project should have been shut down then, but Stalin was a follower of Rambaldi and more than half crazy himself. He was _sure_ that there was a solution and sent Scientists all over the world to find it. Strangely enough, he died in 1953, the same year a solution was finally found" said Silver.

"An English Scientist whose name is long lost to history had very advanced ideas about what would become the field of Genetics. He was sure that there was a way to alter and effect human DNA artificially, but his ideas and suggested means of discovery were so abhorrent to most he'd been forced out of the medical community and ostracised. One of the last things Stalin ever did was give that man access to whatever he wanted to make his theories work in Russia. What was worse, he succeeded" said Silver, slowly...

"You do know that you are suggesting human genetics were being manipulated over a decade before common history and medical science would suggest such was possible, yes?" asked the old man, suddenly cutting in. She knew that he really wanted the Scientists name, but she was just as sure that the man was decades dead.

"Yes. There's a fine line between genius and insanity though and, to my knowledge, this man had crossed it long before he succeeded in creating...well, _us_" said Silver.

"Anyway, to continue... he worked on nothing else and, in 1955, made the breakthrough he'd been working towards, with the help of a large number of "volunteers" from the Gulags again. He discovered a way to use the fragments to alter DNA in specific fashions, to obtain _only_ the required results. Enhanced strength and stamina, heightened senses, even size and weight were optional, as well as particular psychologies, even. He discovered a way to "flip" the switch in the human mind from "passive" to "aggressive", even from "sane" to "insane". To this day, nobody has been able to replicate his work, nor even understand how he did it. He went "mass production" in 1965, once he'd worked out how to spread the Project amongst sufficient numbers" said Silver, taking another sip of tea.

"Take Erik here. His aggressive tendencies were hyper developed to the point of extraordinary Psychotic behaviour. His mindset was simplified to the "Soldier" aspect so that he would follow Orders no matter what and not stop, _ever_, until his objective was achieved. You've heard of parents who see their children in trouble who suddenly develop the strength to lift a small truck off the ground to help their children? Erik is like that _all the time_. He can punch through stone and steel without breaking bones and snap thighbones between finger and thumb" said Silver, gesturing at Erik before turning to Tuomas.

"Take Tuomas here. The "Hunter-Killer" mindset was his basic freeform. He hunts, he kills, but that's _all_ he does and he is _extraordinarily_ talented as a result. He is set up to adapt to any situation as it presents itself, has spatial and personal awareness better than any great cat and knows every martial art, unarmed and armed combat routine there _is_. He isn't at the "top" of his profession, he _is_ what his profession claims to value, the ultimate fighter, killer and professional" said Silver, before pointing at herself with her thumb.

"Take _me_. I was created and designed to lead because the fragment gave me...a little _extra_. I have low-level empathic abilities which let me know for certain not only when someone is nearby, but what they are feeling and so planning to do. I can't be lied to, fooled or hidden from. On top of which I can learn an entirely new fighting style just by watching someone else use it thanks to a memory which improves on both Photographic and Eidetic. I can pick up new languages in seconds if I hear the key words clearly and have an instinctual understanding of technology which lets me use, in ten minutes at most if I concentrate on it alone, any piece of technology. Add in twice the strength of a normal human, agility and reflexes that improve on a Cheetahs? I am the senior here for a reason" said Silver, quietly.

"As for the rest? We were indoctrinated from birth in our "chosen" fields of expertise. From the age of five, we were physically trained and conditioned to make best use of our "gifts". This continued our entire lives until we ran, after which we maintained our training schedules ourselves. Does all of this answer your questions?" asked Silver, raising her own eyebrow.

"Almost" replied the old man, his eyes still locked on hers. "How do we know we can trust you?" he asked, very simply.

"Think of it like this. Our "Father" is long dead, the system and regime we were literally created to serve is long gone, every member of Perfect Dark but us is dead. We live in a concealed stone hut in the middle of nowhere we built with our own hands doing nothing but training for a war we will never fight and growing old. We were meant for more than this, we are _worth_ more than this. Use us well, pay us well and you will have bought our loyalty. Don't? You'll find out just why our family and us were once referred to as "Perfect Dark", you understand..." relied Silver, deliberately letting her voice trail off.

"I do. My name is Matthew Stark, by the way, pleased to make your acquaintance. Don't worry, we'll have _plenty_ for you to do..." replied the old man.

_Virginia, USA_

With Gibbs injured and unable to lead the field investigation himself, Denton had taken command and swept Conklin's house from top to bottom. Despite the fact the entire team had gone through Dean Devlin's house with every means at their disposal and found no trace at all of the Assassin, they hadn't been left disheartened because it had been explained that Agents like him didn't make mistakes.

Jason Bourne wouldn't leave a literal smoking gun anywhere to be found, or any blood if he'd somehow been injured, nor any traces of himself. As Abby had commented, "Even naked, this guy wouldn't be seen or found". What they _could_ do, despite that, despite _him_, was work out exactly what means and ways Bourne had used to breach the security, take out Devlin's guards and then get the jump on Conklin himself, all without raising any sort of alarm. Once they'd done that, though, the best they'd been able to do was pass the information on to the CIA, NSA and Homeland.

None of that changed the fact, though, that there was no guarantee Bourne would use the same means and methods twice, ever. They were up against the ultimate Chameleon, a living weapon trained to beat every security system and security force the US Government had intelligence on. The former top Agent of a group of Assassins even Gibbs wasn't cleared to know the full details of.

To Denton's way of thinking, though, that just meant, in the end, that they had to keep their eyes open. No matter how good Bourne was, no matter where he was, what he did or how he did it, all it took was _one_ mistake and they'd be able to nail his hide to the wall. Training and experience be damned, the man was still a human being who had to move around, eat, drink and sleep. Human beings were incapable of being utterly infallible in the end, for the simple reason humanity had survived as long as it had: trial and error was how they learned. Even Bourne would hit that point, eventually.

That, though, had been Denton's thinking when they'd swept Devlin's house. What they'd found at Conklin's house was something very different.

The whole estate had looked like a War Zone when they'd arrived, just to begin with. The main building looked as though it had been hit with artillery fire and was half-collapsed, every window shattered and fires burning everywhere. Every other structure on the estate had been damaged in some way, too, some of them to the point that all there was left was planks and rubble-one had even been left just a hole in the ground.

The grounds themselves had been literally carpeted with bullet casings and explosive fragments, with scorch marks burnt into the grass and blackening the drive in a dozen places. Then there was the blood, so much of it that the grass was slick with it in places. The front hallway of the house looked like a horror movie, with blood and bits of gore spattered across every surface in sight. Dead bodies were all over the place, too...

Gibbs had explained that Conklin's estate had been hit by two opposing forces at the same time, both of which had apparently had the objective of killing Conklin and anyone with him. That they hadn't succeeded was more because of the fact that they'd started fighting a small War with each other immediately upon arrival than because of any lack of focus, it seemed.

Conklin had been left in a deep Coma, his associate Panov had been left incapable and under heavy sedation because of his injuries, Gibbs and Katherine were both badly injured while the British MI6 Agent was dead. Shot to pieces, almost literally, somehow getting everyone else out alive. _That_ had made it personal, nobody took shots at anyone on the team without paying the price and, with the person who'd saved Gibbs and Katherine's lives dead, he was _very_ annoyed-which made him _very_ focused.

What had to be going through Gibbs mind he didn't want to think about. Gibbs took loosing _anyone_ he took on as his responsibility personally. To have the person who'd saved the lives of not only Gibbs and a member of his team but the two people Gibbs himself would have expected to be protecting die in front of him saving their lives?

If he knew the older man, which he did, Gibbs would spend at least a day cursing his failures and beating himself up, no matter if anything could have gone down any differently or not. Then he'd dedicate the rest of his life to hunting down and bringing to justice, one way or another, _everyone_ responsible.

That was a problem in and of itself. When Gibbs set his mind on doing something in circumstances like these he'd follow any lead he had everywhere he had to for as long as it took, not even stopping for the Gates of Hell itself. It wasn't insanity, it _wasn't_ obsession, it was worse. To Gibbs, it was _duty_-and once started, he'd never stop until the job was done because that was the way it _had_ to be.

That left Denton with a serious issue on his hands: he couldn't stop Gibbs from doing exactly what he wanted to do once he got out of Hospital, even Orders wouldn't matter because Gibbs would Quit and make his own way rather than let this go unanswered. But that would leave _him_ in charge of the team...

Unless he went with his own instincts and backed up Gibbs, whatever it took. Gibbs had made him the man he was today, there was no question of that. So was it loyalty speaking? Or instinct? Or his beliefs on right and wrong? Before Gibbs took matters into his own hands, Denton had a serious decision to make.

His cell phone rang, pulling him out of his own thoughts. He flipped it open and checked it Caller ID. The lab, which meant Abby had something for him.

"Denton. What have you got for us, Abbey?" he asked.

"_Trouble and nothing but. Still running all of the samples and working through the evidence I've got so far, but it's turning into Grand Central Station with phones here. Gibbs has been fielding calls from the FBI, CIA, NSA, Homeland, State, DOD and even the White House. All of them want to know why the scene at Conklin's estate hasn't been run yet after two days and counting, seems some people in high places have interests Conklin's part of, but Gibbs has told them all they can either wait for us to do the job right or go to Hell_" replied Abby, speaking in the far too fast way she always did when she'd had too much Red Bull while working. That was all the time, especially when she'd had her trademark strong black coffee, too.

"_But...and Gibbs told me I spoke to anyone outside the lab about this without going through him he'd frag the lab, which tells you just how mad he is right now...I've got some results for you. Blood work, that is_" Abby continued. Denton knew what she meant, that was her way of saying she had ID's on the dead bodies. Well, everyone had their ways of handling things like this.

"_Lots of Mercs, though, that's the problem. "Cheap labour with guns" like Gibbs says. They come from all over the place, South Am, North Am, Mexico, Africa-you name it-Eastern Europe, Russia, China, the Middle East...no way to pin down who hired them all or why. No ID or identifying marks at all, outside of tattoo's, no traces to run or follow. We can't even run down who paid them, yet, or how they got into the country and armed up. Believe you me, Homelands spitting blood over that one_" said Abby, cheerfully.

"Yeah, I believe you. Thanks for the update, but I got to get back to work now, Ab's-" Denton said with a chuckle, imagining the furious activity that had to be taking place at Homeland Security at the moment. After all, if they'd been doing their job in the first place, this would never have happened. The FBI was essentially a national Police force with Counter-Terrorism responsibility should a threat appear within the USA or threaten too, unless a threat outside the borders _could_ become a threat, even possibly.

It was Homelands job, specifically, to make sure exactly what had happened at Conklin's estate _never_, _ever_ happened, no matter what following 9/11. Given what _had_ happened, despite that? Denton would have given good money to overhear the call the Director of Homeland would have gotten from the President as soon as the news reached his desk, very likely within an hour of the attack itself if not sooner.

Given that the current President had been in office at the time of the 9/11 attacks and created Homeland Security on a "Never again" pledge to the people? Denton suspected that the Director of Homelands phone would have melted in his hand from the Presidents anger just given the spoken word. Someone wasn't going to get any sleep for at least a week after this one... Abby cut him off before he'd finished speaking, though.

"_...Let me finish, Matty... There's one other thing, something Gibbs told me Kate Aquila said. She knew one of the people they ran across, spoke her name aloud. "Kelly Peyton" she said, so I ran the name and, this is where it gets scary..._" said Abby, pausing to breathe in.

"_Matty, I got a hit on the name, the kind of hit which gets you a visit from the Men in Black. The name threw up a red flag in every security system in the country and every one we have links with. Thirty seconds after I ran the query and got a result a General at the Pentagon called my cell and asked me what the Hell I was playing at. The Director of the CIA pulled rank to get on the line with me over him and ordered me to send her everything I had which had led to that name, no questions asked. The Director of Homeland called me and said he was sending a team to collect everything relevant to the Case I was working, including __me__. The Director of the FBI called me to say Order me to report to him directly. Matty, the White House called me and I spoke to the Presidents Advisor on National Security AND the Secretary of Defence! I'm freaking out, here!_" said Abby, speaking faster and faster as adrenaline only made her more anxious.

"Abby, slow down and walk me through it. Let Gibbs handle the big guns, he's good at that. Why did you get this kind of response to a name? Just tell me, slow and easy" said Denton, voice cool and calming.

"_...Okay, okay, sorry. Right. Okay. Well...she's number four on the Ten Most Wanted list for the entire US Government, Matty there's a Termination Order out on her, even, "Shoot on sight". It's been authorised by the President since '94_" said Abby, before pausing to blow her nose.

"_Why is the __**really**__ scary bit, though. Matty... She's a professional Assassin and freelance Intelligence Agent who's got a Kill List which reads like a "Who's Who" of impossible targets going back ten years now, including one of our Ambassadors and a Special Forces General who supposedly nearly caught up with Bin Laden in '05. She dropped off the grid the same year and hasn't been spotted __**anywhere**__ since, but everything there is on her suggests she's into some __**really **__dark and nasty stuff, end of the world bad. Gibbs said Kate took her down shot up and seriously injured, though..._" said Abby, before her voice briefly trailed off.

"_Matty...just what kind of people are we up against here to draw down this kind of attention?_" asked Abby, hopefully. He made sure he didn't sigh, since after Gibbs she always expected him to have all the answers, a requirement he didn't always appreciate. Still, this time he just didn't know what was going on, full stop.

"Abby, I have no idea but I intend to find out. Just hang on in there..." he replied, hoping that she wouldn't work out just how disturbed about all of this he was himself...

_LA, CIA Safe House_

Pamela Landry had always been the kind of woman who liked to get her own hands dirty getting a job done right rather than pass it off to someone who might do an "adequate" job. It was a fact that had served her well throughout her life, particularly at University, where her dedication, focus and certain other skills had drawn the attention of the CIA. They'd recruited her at the age of twenty in 1976 before she'd even finished her Degree and made good use of a significant talent for research and analysis in the years before computers had become easily available.

The break which had taught her superiors she could be of use in the field as well had come in 1982, when her analysis of a KGB threat had proved a major threat to be so immediate that the Section Chief in-city at the time had been forced to scramble every Agent at his disposal. Due to a lack of experienced Agents who were immediately available, the call had gone out to everyone who's weapons count and unarmed combat scores were in the top ten percent, field experience or no field experience. As a young woman, her scores had placed her well within the top five percent-and her actions in the field had proved her skills.

Fifteen good years had followed in and out of the field on any number of assignments, behind the Iron Curtain, China, South America dealing with Communist rebels and the Cartels, along with so many others-including killing missions, not that she'd ever discuss that-before she'd found her place in a high-level desk job in Langley coordinating Agents all over the world. She'd ended up dealing with the kind of missions that always required either the kind of decision that could lead to changes of Government or very powerful people dead, in circumstances that could not be questioned.

To successfully run the kind of ops in question one had to have nerves of steel, an ability to plan for every possibility down to the last detail and an ability to deal with the kind of stress that could kill, morning, noon and night, without release. Landry's record spoke for itself, in eight years in the job the one blown mission she'd suffered had been when an insider in the Agency had fed information to an outside Agent to frame the missing Jason Bourne. Since her promotion when Director Chase had come aboard two years ago, people had stopped questioning her instincts and her decisions-at least to her face.

What people whispered behind her back when they thought she wasn't listening she simply didn't care about, excepting how it affected her performance and her personally. She had a job to do, she did it well, that was the end of the matter. If it meant that she hadn't made many friends or allies and left enemies behind her after thirty years on the job? Tough, she was a professional. Not that it meant it didn't hurt all the more when she lost one of the few friends she _did_ have.

She forced back thoughts of her friend lying dead in her house at Jason Bourne's hand again-she had no time to deal with it now, _still_. But she _would_ deal with it-and _him_. He'd crossed a line by making it personal, whatever sympathy she'd felt for him given how the Agency had treated him had evaporated like the morning mist during one of her dawn runs. The next time they met the consequences for him would be severe-and permanent.

Now, though, as she'd been doing for the past two days, she was focusing on tracking down Monica Messolina-or Talia, as Bourne said she was also known-and keeping what she found to herself. After all, she'd been at this too long to presume Bourne wouldn't find any sympathetic ears inside the CIA if he called out. If she found what he was talking about to be true? She'd take care of it through Director Chase if she had to.

Tracking down Monica Messolina had turned out to be easy, she was a public figure and maybe a d-list Celebrity because she'd been spotted in meetings with the now-President as part of his Campaign team. On top of which, women with her looks tended to draw attention and camera lenses wherever they went, short of extraordinary efforts at disguise. As a Lawyer for some big-name companies and individuals, besides, she had to be possible to reach twenty-four hours a day. That meant her phone was always on, so she could be tracked if need be.

The woman was currently in Los Angeles-curiously enough-and was on Vacation, apparently, as calls to her office had concerned. Calls and E-Mails to other offices and certain people in certain places hadn't dug up anything odd at all about where she'd been, who she'd met and how long she'd spent there for the past decade. She'd been physically seen at every location she'd gone to when she was supposed to have been there, the paperwork and even photographs, film from video and digital cameras and people who'd been present all backed her up. If the woman was providing Cover for her killing work, it was one of the most sophisticated and effective Cover stories Landry had ever seen-and she'd seen the best.

As for "Talia", the woman was so much a cipher a piece of paper with everything they had on the woman printed out would have been thrown out as trash by anyone who wasn't told what it was. Which was absurd, in this day and age, with all of the resources at the disposal of the CIA, but couldn't be helped.

All the CIA had been able to ascertain for certain was that Talia was a young woman who operated as part of the apparently all-female Assassination Team "The Styx Sisters", which she was most likely the leader of. Her record had her going back to 1991 as a killer, but she'd never been photographed, caught on CCTV or any other form of recording. Her DNA wasn't held on record anywhere in the world, witness statements varied so completely from person to person that she suspected they were actually descriptions of several different fantasy figures...

Landry felt like she was trying to open a Russian Doll, where one kept finding smaller and smaller copies of the outer shell inside until one finally reached the tiny doll itself. Was that what she was doing here? Hacking away at the edges of an extraordinary lie trying to dig her way through to an impossible truth? Or had Borne lied to her?

Something told her no, not in this case. He'd played honest man, whatever his reasons-and she suspected it was because this "Talia" knew far more about him than he was comfortable with given what he was up to, whatever plan he was following. He wanted her off his back and, as a favour to her, Landry, he'd given her what he could to make sure "Talia" was caught and shut down. That very fact almost made Landry want to speak to the woman and find out just what Bourne could be hiding before anything else happened.

That meant she'd keep looking, no matter what it took nor how long she had to work at it. If this woman was everything Bourne said she was, she needed to be shut down regardless of personal feelings. It didn't mean she wouldn't find a chance to use her against Bourne if the opportunity presented itself...

/End of Chapter 22. All Reviews welcomed/.


	23. Chapter 23

Legal disclaimers: see earlier parts.

Disclaimers: see earlier parts.

**The Last Day**

_Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 2007, two days ago_

The speeding convoy of armed attackers, it quickly came clear, were heading for the airport. How they expected to manage a takeoff when the Viet military would likely be moving to lock down the airport already given a major terrorist attack in their nations capital was a problem Nadia didn't have time to consider. She was too busy trying to hold onto the jeep while the driver, Sarah, drove like the Hordes of Hell were right behind while and she was trying to dodge through eastern European traffic like a professional stunt driver.

"Fast" was the wrong way to describe how Sarah was driving, Nadia couldn't help but think, the older woman hadn't used the brakes in ten minutes of driving so fast that a madman would have had a heart attack. The fact that they _still_ hadn't caught sight of more than the evident rearguard of the convoy of vehicles abducting Ambassador Frost was, therefore, a lot more than just disturbing.

Why were the roads of a major city so clear that a convoy of armed soldiers in fast vehicles could speed through them without evident hindrance or pursuit beyond her own small team? Why hadn't she heard any Police sirens at all? Why were there no helicopters in the air, police, military or otherwise? What the Hell was going _on_? None of this made any sense, there was no way the authorities would allow an event like this to go unanswered, no matter _who'd_ been paid off. If the American Ambassador died like this, with the history of Vietnam and the USA? There was _no_ telling how the US Government would react, what they might do...

Even as she thought that, Randi finally managed to finish the phone call she'd received five minutes ago, the reception having evidently been so bad she'd had to go over everything twice just to get clear what was being said. Given the expression on her face, Nadia expected something awful. What she heard was worse.

"That was the Embassy, they just got word from the Vietnamese DoD Minister directly. We're on our own here" snapped Randi, looking as though she was about draw her gun and start shooting anything breakable, just to begin with. Nadia barely knew the woman, but she knew mad when she saw it. Still, she needed more than that.

"What do you mean we're on our own?! They've got the Police and the Military, we've got four guns, two wounded! What are we supposed to do against thirty armed professionals, close our eyes, start shooting and hope for the best?!" Nadia almost shouted in return. She didn't like the sound of this, not at all.

"Nadia, someone's attacked every Police station and compound in the city with Nerve Gas. The survivors are all in hospital and over ninety percent of the force is _dead_. There's only one military compound inside the city and reports are coming in that there's a gunfight occurring between factions there as we speak. Troops are coming in from the nearest bases but that's twenty minutes away. They're scrambling fighters but they won't be any quicker, they weren't on alert and are having to re-vector everything to put planes over the capital" replied Randi, looking Nadia straight in the eyes as she spoke.

"The President won't back us up with elements of the Presidential Guard because he doesn't trust anyone right now and the guard have locked down the Presidential Palace to ensure his safety. Our own people are half an hour behind us and we were short-handed to begin with. It's down to _us_" Randi almost shouted over the roar of the engine, even as the jeep skidded around a corner so fast it lost traction for a long second on the rough roads before the tires caught and it sprang ahead again.

"Madre de dios, we're going to die..." muttered Nadia. This was, so far, most certainly the worst week of her life. Easily.

Y

Aishwariya knew the roads and back streets of Ho Chi Minh city from hours of touring and careful planning, just in case. She knew every short cut, every best route and every obstruction with her eyes shut. She knew where the best Sniper posts were and where a trap or booby trap would be placed if someone wanted any pursuer dead.

That was why, even though they'd actually picked up the pursuit after Nadia and her surviving Backup, they were actually far ahead of them and almost at the airport, within visual distance of the convoy abducting Ambassador Frost. Now, Aishwariya just needed to work out how they were going to take off with a restrained Frost in any plane and yet get away from combat jets the Viet military had to be scrambling even as they drove. That, she was having trouble with.

"Dixon, I don't care if you can walk or not. You have a bullet in your leg and too much moving around could make it nick an artery so you'll bleed to death from the inside out. I _won't_ see that happen, so you'll run backup on this one. Let _me_ do the legwork here" said Aishwariya, her tone of voice making clear what she was suggesting wasn't in any way a discussion. Dixon, of course, couldn't have cared less.

"She's my Partner, so she gets my help as and when she needs it. If they beat us to the airport and take off we've lost them anyway. You need me as backup, no matter what" Dixon replied, without pausing as he bandaged up the still bleeding wound in his left leg. He'd cut the trouser leg away and checked the wound first-shallow, but deep enough for concern because he couldn't get the bullet out easily without medical instruments.

"Dixon, I love you dearly for your loyalty, but sometimes I just want to grab you and shake you really hard to see if any sense falls out. You can't help _yourself_ at the minute with that hole in your leg, unless you intend to make yourself a slow-moving target. You can shoot straight and well just fine, though. So, if _you_ cover _me_, we just might both live through this" replied Aishwariya, sharply.

"I will, you know it, but I'm not being left out of this" replied Dixon, his voice harsh. When he used that voice on her she knew it was pointless to argue, even though she was right. She was halfway tempted to shoot him in the other leg, to see if that got through to him, but restrained herself from opening fire with some effort.

"Fine, but then I have a suggestion to make. We're sitting in a highly mobile battering ram and I can't think of too many ways of getting through these idiots quickly enough to reach the plane before it takes off. Do you follow me, Marcus?" she asked.

Dixon's only response to her question was a slow smile.

Y

The airport was designed to handle international flights, so it was easy to see it long before they reached it. Huge reception buildings became clear first, then they caught sight of the control tower, the tall fences surrounding the airport itself as they headed towards the edge of the city, looming over long, black tarmac runways surrounded by green grass.

The jeeps engine was screaming in a way which suggested it was going to blow up, but it had been for five minutes so Nadia was more interested in trying to find out where the head of the enemy convoy was. Unless the engine _did_ blow up she wasn't going to get concerned, mainly because if it did? At this range? She'd be dead before she knew what had happened.

She finally caught sight of the racing columns head, a heavy silver car with glazed windows and, she'd bet, armoured glass and frame for defence. Even as she watched, armed guards at the main entrance of the airport Ordered a halt even as they raised their weapons to fire-only for both men to be torn to pieces in seconds by a hail of gunfire. The lead car went through the closed gates like a battering ram without stopping, snapping the lock with contemptuous ease, head of a six-car convoy.

But, even as she watched, the last three cars turned sharply and skidded to a halt, one going left, the other right, the third just skidding about sharply to block the entrance. Four armed men leapt out of each car and took cover, forming into a fire team with professional efficiency, all of them clearly taking aim on the charging jeep, which was still a good two hundred metres away.

Oh, well. She'd suspected they were going to die, now she got a chance to prove herself wrong. If she _could_-

The roar of massive plane engines as a huge jet-black transporter plane rolled abruptly into view nearly shook any thoughts she had right out of her skull with the devastating vibration caused by four massive propeller-driven engines near-literally shaking the ground around them. She felt every bone in her body rattle and her teeth click together with an almighty crunch even as Sarah barely kept control of the jeep, the vibrations shaking all of them off-centre for a long moment-which, she knew, would be all the shooters would need to kill them...

Then she heard a new, deep roar and glimpsed, out of the corner of her eye, a big vehicle racing for the defenders position so fast that it was clear the driver wasn't going to stop. The vehicle was a lot bigger and more solid looking than any civilian vehicle that immediately sprang to mind-then she placed it, a Humvee.

Had someone in the Embassy guard caught up with them somehow? She had to wonder. But then she glimpsed a face she'd come to know very well in the past six months, dark-skinned and, as usual, set in a grim line, eyes hard..._Dixon_. What the _Hell_-?!

Y

Aishwariya simply drove the Humvee right through the security fence without so much as blinking, the heavy Humvee easily battering down the security fence and it's support posts. Uzi in her lap, since anything heavier would have been impossible to wield on the move successfully, she span the wheel to point them at the main entrance.

The defenders were ready for an assault, but clearly hadn't anticipated one coming from their rear flank because she saw a figure barking orders and men running to new positions. Then she made sure she wasn't exposed as four men opened up on the Humvee with assault rifles.

The Humvee was a military design and its armour was easily thick enough to deflect bullets, but the windscreen was only reinforced glass and enough hits there would blast it right out of its frame into her face. Given the speed they were moving at and the density of the glass, she had no doubt if the glass went she'd loose both eyes and most of the skin on her face at best, so she couldn't let that happen.

Sparks flew up all over the bonnet and front sides of the Humvee as the defenders walked their fire over the vehicles hide, looking for weak points. Cracks and thuds echoed as bullets were deflected by the windscreen glass, but she could see small cracks starting to appear from the moment of impact. She rammed her foot all the way down to the floor and held it there, the Humvees engine roaring like an angry Dragon as it almost seemed to react to the assault against it, the big tires biting the tarmac and driving the heavy vehicle forwards so fast that she had trouble keeping it straight and steady. Both of the front tires blew as the defenders fire tried to immobilise them, but Humvees could run on four flats and it was too late anyway.

Men dived left and right, rolling right over car roofs and sprinting clear in desperation as the Humvee collided headfirst with the right-hand car, its greater weight added to its momentum catapulting the car it struck ten feet backwards and into the air with an horrific screech of tearing and shredded metal. The central car collapsed under the impact as the right-hand car first of all struck it side-on with such force that it was almost bent into a U shape before going on to land lengthwise on top of it to leave the two cars looking like a scrap metal sandwich.

The Humvee spent the remainder of its momentum slamming the remains of the two cars into the third cars rear with enough force to spin it right around, the car ending up on its side with a screeching bang of echoing impact. One man was caught under the third cars side as it rolled and was crushed underneath with a brief scream of agony that was abruptly cut off, but the other men got clear.

Dixon, physically shaken but ready and waiting, turned his M-16 on the still-scattered men and calmly opened fire on semi-automatic, killing three before the survivors began to raise their weapons and shoot back. He ducked behind the doorframe even as Aishwariya rolled smoothly out of the Humvee with her Uzi in hand. She ran over to the rolled car, reaching it with a rolling dive even as the defenders fired on her, leapt on top before he knew what she was doing and killed two more with shots of such relaxed accuracy that her simple marksmanship made him blink. Seemingly without stopping moving, she hit the floor in a smooth roll even as a hail of gunfire tore apart the roof of the rolled car, although not the floor that protected her.

Three men moved in on the Humvee in a rolling shooting style, rotating cover with one man always covering Dixon's position even as the other two moved forwards. Dixon pulled out a grenade, counted down until he was sure then threw it with a snapped look at the attacking team. Three seconds later a roaring blast echoed and Dixon looked up over the door to find only one of the three men still feebly moving, the other two messily dead, blood and guts everywhere.

Nadia's jeep arrived through the breach in the blockade created by Aishwariya's vehicular carnage, all aboard opening fire with pistols on the surviving defenders excepting the bloodied soldier, who opened up with an M-16. One man took a bullet in the leg and another low in the chest as he was a second too slow, but the three other mobile ones dived for cover behind the wreckage of their vehicles fast enough. The soldier jumped out of the jeep before the jeep sped away after the still-loading transport plane.

The wounded man with two bullets in him suddenly sat up, pistol in hand-and double-tapped the US soldier in the heart before he could make cover, killing him almost instantly. Dixon finished off the wounded man with two three-round bursts, but it was too late.

Suddenly a nightmare visage of blood and a shredded left arm loomed over Dixon, right hand clutching a combat knife, the glint of pain and madness in too-bright eyes. Dixon slammed the barrel of his M-16 into his attackers gut, who he belatedly identified as the somehow still mobile survivor of the grenade attack, but he had to lean forwards to get any real force behind the blow and didn't have time.

The knife hacked down and the tip turned red as the man tried to disembowel him by raking the edge of the knife across his ribs towards Dixon's stomach, tearing open Dixon's clothes, which almost instantly began to soak through with blood, as he did. But the barrel-punch to the mans own gut drove the wind out of him and, unable to pull the trigger at such an extended angle, Dixon expertly rolled the M-16 in his hands and slammed the butt into the mans jaw to drive him backwards with as much force as he could manage.

The man was almost catapulted backwards with an audible crack as Dixon's strike broke his jaw, but he managed to stay on his feet. Dixon dropped the M-16, snapped his pistol out of its holster and shot the man twice in the head point-blank. A crimson mist sprayed into the air even as the man tottered for a long second before he collapsed, dead on his feet.

Dixon was too late ducking back this time, though, as two more men appeared and opened fire. He threw himself backwards, but wasn't fast enough and took a bullet to the left shoulder, his whole arm flaring suddenly in agony before going numb-which actually concerned Dixon more, given the possibility of nerve damage. Blood ran down his arm in a thin but steady stream, although he could still make his fingers respond...

It didn't change the fact that he couldn't fight on with two bullets in vital parts of his body. Not to mention given the amount of blood he had to be loosing now given the two deep wounds in his chest and shoulder. He was still holding his pistol in his right hand, so he felt in his pocket for his remaining grenade with his weak arm. Even if they killed him, he could make sure that they all went to Hell together-

Twin barks of automatic gunfire echoed as Aishwariya killed both of his attackers, then he heard running footsteps passing him by. Maybe now wasn't his time after all...?

Aishwariya killed two of the four survivors as they broke cover to finish off the wounded Dixon, then sprinted full out towards the position she knew the last two were holding behind the sandwiched cars. She leapt up onto the top of the wreckage without breaking stride, kept going and landed directly between the two of them.

Unfortunately, both were within arms reach-and both were very quick to react. One dropped his weapon and pulled out a pair of knives, the other went for her legs with his weapon held like a club.

She threw her Uzi into the face of the man with the knives, breaking his nose and staggering him, even as she leapt over the clubbing strike from the second man and snapped a hook kick into his jaw. The man was thrown from his feet even as blood and teeth exploded out of his mouth, his weapon spinning away uselessly, but he rolled fast to one side and avoided a follow-through pile-driver kick designed to crush his ribcage.

The knife man recovered fast, came straight back at her and she had to concentrate to hold him off, expert counters with forearms and fingers coupled with a skilled weaving of her whole body to places where the knives wouldn't be, all to keep the knives away from her body. He was clearly an experienced knife-fighter, but if he were _her_ she'd have been dead by the time he'd taken her gun to the face. "Almost" simply didn't cut it.

The second man recovered and came back into the fight, employing what she identified as a Thai unarmed combat fighting style people who knew it used to kill Black Belts for fun. He evidently thought that she would be just as easy, because he put up little in the way of a guard as he came at her.

She put him out of his misery quickly as she dropped to the floor in a spinning kick that took her legs back up into the air in a whip-quick high kicking strike against both men at once, one a leg. Neither man was expecting it and the unarmed man nearly had his throat crushed while the knife man just barely managed to deflect her kick with a parry using his forearm, only for the force of impact to be sufficient to knock his knife out of his hand.

The unarmed man crashed back to the floor, slowly turning purple, breathing in sips, while she followed through with a surging underarm strike as she came back upright and used her entire body as strike weight to punch the knife man in the stomach as she rose, with such force she crushed his stomach against his backbone. He bent over against her strike so completely that he was folded around her fist like a vice, but the fact he vomited blood told her everything she needed to know. She wrenched her fist free, got the wounded man in a headlock and broke his neck with a sharp twist. The second man, who was watching her with desperation in his eyes, died from a sharp heel-stamp to the chest which drove broken ribs into his heart.

That done, she recovered her Uzi and hurried over to the Humvee, since she hadn't seen Dixon nor heard the sound of him shooting for several minutes. He couldn't be dead, he just couldn't be.

"Dixon...Marcus?" she called out, not sure what answer she was expecting, if any...

Y

The three remaining cars had skidded to a halt less than twenty feet away from the taxiing transport plane, all twelve men immediately leaping out and sprinting full out for the plane even as it began to build up speed-including two who were carrying a weakly struggling man between them, arms around his shoulders in a way which had drugs written all over it. It could only be the Ambassador, unconscious at the time or not Nadia had no doubt she was in the company of the only survivors of the convoy who the attackers had intended to kill.

All of the men got aboard, leaping onto the lowered loading ramp of the transporter plane before running on inside. The ramp started to rise as soon as the last man made it inside and she knew that, even given Sarah's skill at driving at impossible speed, they weren't going to get there fast enough. Evidently, though, Sarah had already realised that herself and she was glancing around as though looking for something.

A side hatch on the big transporter opened and a man leaned out of it, clutching a weapon of some sort. He was being held aboard the plane by a second man, so Nadia's view was partially obscured for a few seconds-but there was no mistaking the long, thin tube for anything other than it was when she got a good look.

"RPG!" she shouted, even as Sarah twisted the wheel so hard that she nearly rolled the jeep and turned the car so fast that all four wheels smoked across the ground before the suddenly reversed acceleration cancelled out their momentum to fire them away from the plane. Randi had to grab the injured Nadia as the tight turn threatened to throw Nadia clear of the jeep, her injuries slowing her reflexes, but Sarah had timed her manoeuvre just right after seeing the RPG herself.

The RPG fired, but missed the jeep by twenty feet as the shooter failed to correct for the jeeps sudden about turn. Sarah didn't bother even trying to turn back, instead keeping her foot all the way down and heading straight for one of the nearby big grey hangers. Nadia wondered why for a split second, then she saw the small single-engine bright white plane sitting just outside the hanger with what looked like two astonished brightly-dressed tourists standing beside it. Their expressions suggested they thought they'd just seen the opening salvo of a War-and Nadia didn't know whether or not they were right. Now wasn't the time to consider that, though.

They reached the couple and the plane in less than a minute, even though Sarah hit the brakes so hard that it took twenty feet for the jeep to skid to a halt as the speed bled off. Randi was still up and out of the jeep the second it was still, though, gun in hand, striding towards the two Europeans in a way that said she'd start killing if she had to given just her body language.

"American? European? Talk!" snapped out Randi, sharply, even as Sarah and Nadia hurried after her.

"I...we're... American, look...what the Hell is going _on_?!" the man managed to get out, clearly out of his depth and suffering no little bit from shock. In late middle age, overweight and soft looking in all the important places, Nadia tagged him as an office worker who'd never seen trouble like this less than a minute after she met him. The woman she presumed was his Wife looked even worse, same age but pale and shaking like a leaf.

"People are being killed. We're taking your plane" said Randi, turning away from the couple as though they were no longer of consequence. They weren't, of course, Nadia knew. If they tried to get in the way now they'd simply end up dead or worse, they were better off completely out of the way somewhere safe-like inside the hanger.

"Now hold on, that's our only transport-" began the man, almost automatically on hearing Randi's words. He didn't get to finish, as she spun back towards him with a look in her blue eyes which made even Nadia flinch.

"I _said_ people are being killed, so I don't care if you report this plane stolen by three raving lunatics and their pet atomic bomb. If, however, you get in my way again or even _try_ to delay us I will, be clear on this, shoot out both of your kneecaps and sleep like a baby the same night. Am I clear?" asked Randi, in a voice so harsh that it was as though she'd seen Hell and enjoyed the view, no matter what anyone else thought.

Nadia had known soldiers who'd served for decades who couldn't manage to get their message across so effectively verbally. It made her wonder just what the woman had been through to grant her such a talent at her still-young age.

"...Yes. All yours" replied the man, stepping backwards and away from the plane. Without another word, Nadia, Randi and Sarah got aboard and Sarah started the engine, quickly getting the plane moving even as the big transporter plane reached the end of the runway and lifted off, slowly but surely.

Sarah aimed the plane towards the end of the same runway and drove the throttle forwards as far as she could as quickly as possible, the small planes engine noise building up to rattling rumble as it quickly built up speed. It hurtled along the runway before pulling up sharply, heading directly after the big transport plane which, while far more powerful, was unlikely actually faster. Sarah fire walled the throttles and aimed them straight at the transporter, her focus such that Nadia halfway believed Sarah was expecting to draw the two planes closer together by sheer force of will.

"Where did you learn to fly a plane, Sarah?" asked Nadia, finally thinking to ask the question. After all, just an evening of girl talk hardly told you everything about anyone.

"My Husband taught me, after twenty-five years as a pilot in the military he was a damn good teacher. Or _was_" replied Sarah, shortly, her voice holding barely containing a still-raw pain. Nadia winced, that was a subject which _had_ come up when they'd been talking the night before.

Sarah and her husband had both been career military, even though her husband had joined up at seventeen and she herself at nineteen after...issues in earlier life. Both had been in the military for over a decade before they'd first met, after which they maintained contact for almost a further decade and indulged in an awkward Courtship that whole time, both so concerned for their Careers they never quite managed to take the next step despite several close calls.

In the end, with both pushing forty they'd laid their cards down and made a choice: one of them had to Quit so that the two of them could get together, Married and stop dancing around the subject for good. They'd each bet on a side of her husbands coin toss, since they both liked to play the odds-and he'd won. She'd Quit the Military without regret despite a distinguished high-flying Career at JAG, gotten a position with a law firm instead-which, she'd joked, paid three times her old JAG salary but presented nothing like the satisfaction of a job well done-and been blissfully happy for three years.

Then a terrorist strike against the Aircraft Carrier her husband had been on, a bomb detonated against the carrier's side despite all security precautions, carried there in a sailing boat, had ended the life she knew. Her husband had been _inside_ the area which had been struck when the blast occurred, a blast of such force it had torn open a section of the carrier's hull like a can opener. Nobody within twenty feet of the blast had survived and the closer to the blast, the worse the damage.

She'd buried no more than unrecognisable charred fragments of her husband they'd had to use DNA tests to identify. After that, she'd suffered a Breakdown which had landed her in Hospital for a month before she'd recovered. She'd gone back to JAG to escape what was left of her "new" life and they'd taken her back with open arms. Something told Nadia, from the way Sarah had slowly related the story, Sarah honestly expected to be killed in service to her country just like her husband had been. In fact, she would almost have gone so far as to suggest the older woman had a Death Wish under other circumstances...

Ahead of them, the big transporter plane seemed to lurch in mid-air all of a sudden and a trace of black smoke was coughed out of its far left-side engine. Then the propeller sharply slowed down and flames began to lick around the engine housing, thick black smoke pouring from the engine before it thinned out as on-board extinguishers got the fire under control and put it out.

"What was _that_?" asked Randi, looking all around and seeing nothing. Nadia couldn't see anything either, but something had clearly nearly destroyed the transporter planes outboard engine.

"Would you believe me if I said I think a Sniper managed to put a heavy shell inside the engine cowling?" replied Sarah. Nadia took a moment to even consider that seriously, but Randi just stared at Sarah as though it was a simple and logical, if surprising, explanation.

"You think that they...?" she asked, clearly suggesting that Dixon and his evident Partner had done it. Sarah shook her head no, though.

"No, I saw the state he was in when we hit the airfield, he couldn't make a shot like that torn up the way he was. I think _she_ did it" replied Sarah, which made Randi's eyes widen.

"That had to be a fifteen-hundred metre shot at a high-speed moving target, accounting for variables I don't even want to _begin_ considering. I've done enough sharp shooting myself to know what's possible and what isn't, there can't be more than ten people on the _planet_ who could make a shot like that. Your seriously telling me you think there's one below us now?" asked Randi.

"No, I think a passing seagull with a grenade on its back got confused and made a Suicide attack. _Yes_, I'm serious, now shut up and let me fly" snapped Sarah, clearly tired of being questioned. Nadia and Randi took the hint.

Y

Ambassador Frost had, during his career with the CIA, seen _every_ form of pain and suffering it was possible for one human being to inflict on another _more_ than once. Some of it he'd suffered, some of it he'd inflicted, most of it he'd watched. None of it changed the fact that he knew exactly what he could and couldn't stand where pain was concerned.

That was why he was dimly amused at why his apparently intended interrogator actually thought repeatedly punching and kicking him in the face and stomach would have any affect. The young man looked thirty years old, if that, giving Frost most of half a century on him, which made Frost old enough to be his grandfather. It also meant that Frost had been killing people silently with his bare hands in Korea before the young man's father had ever placed him on this earth. It likely meant that Frost had killed more people in his lifetime than the young man had yet met.

Again, somehow this struck Frost as very amusing even as he spat out the blood that was building up in his mouth and ignored the pain from his cracked nose. The young man actually thought that he could simply beat what he wanted to know out of some frail, ill old man without real effort or application of imagination. This, despite the fact that the reason _for_ his ill health was the fact he'd survived exposure to a lethal dose of Nerve gas seventeen years ago. Was the young man actually stupid enough to think that pain meant anything to him after that? Just what did they _teach_ the young these days?

"Had enough yet, old man?!" snarled his would-be interrogator, not even breathing hard despite the five-minute beating he'd delivered. Frost just smiled at him, his mouth and nose ringed in fresh blood.

"Sorry, I...think I fell asleep...there. Did...you ask...something?" he replied, having more trouble breathing than he usually did. Not that it bothered him, he knew there was no way that he was getting out of this alive. A vicious kick to the head was the result, which made him see stars and, he suspected, dented or even cracked his skull. Again, though, it didn't bother him. He had a very effective life insurance policy, after all.

"_Fuck_ you, old man. By the time I'm through with you they won't be able to tell you from dead and you'll _still_have to answer our questions. Sounds like fun, huh?" the man snapped, following through with a couple of heavy kicks to Frosts ribs. He felt bone crack inside his chest but made sure he didn't give any outwards sign of suffering any form of pain. He couldn't fight back against the man physically, but he'd always known how to get inside peoples heads. Neanderthal military sorts like the man beating him were even easier than most.

Frost grinned, his teeth stained pink with his own blood. "I'm looking...forwards to it" he replied, even as he carefully noted the knife in a sheath on the young mans left lower leg. Well, maybe he _could_ do something. All he would need is a chance...

The plane suddenly lurched to the left as an awful metal clanking and clattering echoed from somewhere outside the hull. Frost immediately identified the racket as a damaged engine running out of control, but the other men in the plane were tossed around and looked confused, bar one who ordered them to calm down and get back to work. Unfortunately for the man trying to interrogate Frost, he was so distracted that he stopped watching the old man. It was the last mistake he'd ever make.

He'd killed too many men in his life to ever forget how, so he reacted automatically. He grabbed the knife, drove himself upright with an effort that nearly knocked him unconscious and drove the knife between the young mans fourth and fifth ribs straight into his heart. The man died almost immediately, but lived long enough for Frost to see the terror of knowing he was dead shine in his eyes before they went dead forever.

The man collapsed, Frost swaying like a drunk but staying upright as he turned unsteadily to face the shocked remaining men, knife still in his hand. His final smile looked like a scene from a horror movie with blood coating his entire lower face and dripping from his jaw onto his chest like some nightmare beard.

"Boys, I have only one thing to say to you. Go to _Hell_" said Frost, his voice pleasingly strong for the last words he'd ever speak, he couldn't help but think. Then, without hesitation, he reached up and cut his own throat.

He heard shouts of shock and alarm even as he fell to his knees, his broken old body dying quickly. He collapsed even as men ran to catch him, shouting for a First Aid kit as his hearing quickly failed. He'd done his duty.

He felt the shift inside his chest and, yet again, thought to be glad of the benefit of foresight. Old he was, stupid he wasn't, never had been. He'd always known the unusual operation would pay off in the end.

He felt his heart stuttering to a stop, smiled with the very last of his strength. His favourite saying of his generation was the last thing to float through his mind as he died.

_Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!_

Y

Nadia would never know what happened next, nor how it happened. All she could knew was what she saw, that the big transporter plane suddenly seemed to start shaking in mid-air-then it was literally torn to pieces in some kind of explosion that could only have come from inside the vehicle itself.

She was too shocked to say anything even as chunks of plane rocketed past them in every direction as a small sun suddenly seemed to light up where the transporter plane had been just seconds before. Randi swore creatively even as Sarah suddenly started fighting the controls to maintain control of their plane against the concussive force of the blast that had destroyed the plane. That very effort, though, stopped her from seeing what was coming next.

A destroyed engine, or at least what was left of it, was rolling through the air towards them at an awful speed. Nadia tried to say something, couldn't get the words out and had to resort to screaming in terror. That got Randi's attention even as she hung on for grim life in the co-pilots seat, but Sarah didn't see what was happening until it was too late.

With a grinding, cracking crash of steel impacting on metal, plastic and glass, the destroyed engine hit the cockpit of their plane with the force of a small bomb, throwing the plane over backwards in mid-air even as they all tried to duck. Nadia, fresh blood on her face she wasn't sure was hers, didn't need to be told that the spiralling aircraft and screaming engine meant that they were going down, completely out of control...

/End of Chapter 23. All Reviews welcomed/.


	24. Chapter 24

Legal disclaimers: see earlier parts.

Disclaimers: see earlier parts.

**The Last Day**

_Rome, 2005_

Sydney Bristow blinked, slowly and carefully as she sensed just how gummy her eyes were, then again, before her eyes opened properly and she could see. Her eyes focused so slowly that she knew before the hangover caught up with her that she'd had _way_ too much to drink the night before, but she could deal with that. She was, in fact, getting _far_ too used to dealing with pain. _Every_ kind of pain.

She let her eyes focus and found herself staring at the ceiling of a room she didn't know. It was elegantly designed with swirling designs in white paint and an elegant gold-rimmed lampshade, all of which suggested considerable wealth. That helped her narrow it down, she didn't know that many people with access to real wealth these days.

She looked around as best she could, taking in a rich brown wooden design which made up the walls of the bedroom she was evidently in. Deep, dark red curtains shut out most of what looked like traces of early morning sunlight, but some had slipped through and lit up a small piece of the floor, revealing a thick, light-brown creamy design.

The slight illumination was enough to highlight what looked like truly exquisite works of art on two of the rooms four wall, and a small statue of what looked like Diana, the old Roman Goddess of the Hunt, sitting above the bed on a shelf out of easy reach. The wall directly opposite the bed held a pair of heavy double doors, dark wood banded with painted steel on the inside, which she had no doubt were securely locked.

A massive wall dresser with sliding doors led away from the bed deeper into the house to the left, while a desk and chair with a lamp mounted atop the desk sat right beside the window. Something told Sydney that a personal bathroom lay at the far end of the wardrobe area, but she didn't want to try too hard to remember how she might know that. Something told her it was possible she didn't want to remember the answer.

Right next to the bed, on both sides, a small nightstand of the same dark wood as the walls sat, solid and with a single drawer at the very top. A perfect place to keep anything you might need in a hurry, she couldn't help but think, such as a weapon, money, a form of communication...

Oddly, it was only at that point she realised she wasn't alone in the bed. The fact she felt so warm, comfortably and incredibly relaxed _should_ have tipped her off, but she later assumed she hadn't really wanted to recall what had led her into this bed-_her_ bed-in particular. When she finally managed to look around and take in the sight of just who was so closely wrapped around her, though, an arm and a leg wrapped right around her own body, it all came back to her.

The easily luxurious, luminous beauty that defied description. That impossibly smooth, silken hair that never seemed to stop being electric to run one's hands through. The smooth, soft skin that could have lured _anyone_ so close just to see if it was real, that the woman could have used to have any man in the world eating out of her hand. The long-limbed powerful physique and smooth, full curves of a body that was firm yet giving to the touch in all the right places, a physique that took her breath away every time she saw it. Impossible eyes which caught at the Soul, full red lips which drew the eye before the body... If pleasure was ever granted a physical form, this woman was the literal definition.

_Monica Messolina_. _**Talia**_. The most dangerous killer and Intelligence Agent Sydney Bristow, currently known as Julia Catherine Thorne, had ever even heard of, let alone met. A _woman_...

Flashes of recollection sparked in her mind as she took in her still-sleeping companions face. Far too much to drink. Words being said. What she thought had been a game of Truth or Dare, where she...had confessed certain secrets. More drinking, laughter, not so innocent flirting with Cole, then the kiss with Monica to really get his attention, which had turned into something _far_ different than she'd intended.

What she thought had been a cheer and a toast to them both from Kate as the kiss had become something much more than a silly locking of lips. It had been _her_ reaction which had dragged the two of them so close together she'd ended up practically inside Monica's clothes while they were still in the bar. Cole had gotten them outside and into a car, then...

Then a stream of images she could never remember the details of, _never_, followed, of the _very_ graphic kind. What was done was done, she could live with that, even another woman as part of the Mission, uncomfortable as it made her feel. But she did _not_ need memories of just how delicious Monica had tasted, just how perfect she had felt, _they_ had felt together, floating around to tempt or just distract her all the time in the back of her mind.

Still thinking that, she carefully extracted herself-with reluctance she would never admit to-from Monica's embrace, got out of the tangled black silk sheets of the bed and stood up, breathing in slowly and carefully, trying to wake up her still alcohol-affected mind. It worked, slightly, things became a little clearer, but she almost wished it hadn't a moment later.

That moment was how long it took her to realise that there were no scattered clothes, at all, in the room with them. Nobody could have gotten into the room after the door had been locked and Monica had been...preoccupied until maybe an hour ago, at least. So where...?

That was when she remembered Monica had had Cole drive herself and "Julia" to the bar to meet the others in the big Limo her family used for formal occasions, normally. It had blacked-out windows and a privacy screen and Cole, being Cole, would have kept going to their destination no matter what happened. No matter what he heard.

She covered her face with her hands as she realised what had to have happened, groaning aloud even as she turned crimson. The only way to truly live another life, as she was doing, was to live as someone else _completely_, change everything that mattered about yourself. Julia Thorne had far less in the way of inhibitions, morals and conscience than Sydney Bristow had at her worst...

She and Monica had gotten started in the Limo on the way back from the bar and hadn't bothered to get dressed once they'd reached the mansion. They had to have run halfway through the mansion in the nude... Could this _get_ any more embarrassing and humiliating?! At least nobody she really cared about would ever know about it.

Sighing, she walked down the corridor towards the bathroom, stopping only to pick out an emerald-green robe she found while glancing through the large selection of clothing Monica evidently owned. She and Monica had similar builds, she had no doubt it would fit. She'd just have to see about getting her own clothes back at some point.

A wash and a shower later she felt as though she was capable of moving and speaking at the same time. So she put the robe on, unlocked and opened the doors and went looking for the kitchen.

The mansion was huge, it seemed, she counted at least six bedrooms and several other rooms with closed doors before she even reached the broad staircase to downstairs. She made a point of ignoring a glimpse of Cole in bed with at least two young women, that she really didn't need to think about right now.

When she got downstairs, a front door of solid dark wood reinforced with steel crossbars which appeared designed to repel a battering ram was clearly the main way in and out. A soft white carpet appeared under the stairs leading back into the body of the house, while tiles of black and white covered the entire landing in front of the doors, making a silent entrance clearly impossible for anyone not carefully prepared.

Walking over it barefoot and silent, she made her way towards the body of the house, sure that she'd find her way into the kitchen by chance as much by judgement given enough time. Besides, she'd wondered what the inside of Monica's home would look like for a while now.

It was richly decorated, with works of art on the walls, expensive designs creating patterns in the paint that were both intriguing and somehow relaxing to the eye. Dark, solid wood featured in greater parts everywhere, although the buildings structure was clearly overwhelmingly stone, brick and concrete, all designed in a way that never quite caught the eye but seemed, somehow, to suit the strangely quite atmosphere of the place.

She recognised a few of the artworks, none of which were masterpieces but all of which were works of sufficient quality to make owning them a coup in certain circles. Whoever had decorated the building, it seemed, had a good eye and had been determined to make sure that everything was set up to put one at ease. It put her in the mind of a person who dealt with so much stress and pressure on a daily basis that they had structured the home to be a retreat from all of that, as far as was physically possible. Monica's father? More than likely, from what little she knew about the man and his working life.

She heard what sounded like water sloshing around in a side room with two frosted glass doors, so she pushed them open to see what was inside-and had to stop and stare. That, she had _not_ been expecting.

A swimming pool was evident, under a glass ceiling which reached all the way to the main roof of the structure, one broad and long enough for a professional to use it to train for an Olympics attempt. In the centre of it, lying peacefully on her back atop an inflated floating bed, was Kate Aquila, arms, legs and hair out and loose trailing in the water.

The woman wasn't wearing any clothes, but she _was_ wearing a Union Jack flag, wrapped around her so tightly it looked like she had to be having trouble breathing. The big flag was simply too large to have been bought in a shop somewhere, which could mean only one thing: it was the official flag of a British base or Embassy, so Kate had to have stolen it at some point the night before.

Knowing her, she'd stolen it from the Embassy roof while it had been in full view in the dead of night. Sydney could only hope that she hadn't been spotted doing so, the last thing they needed was irate Embassy Security putting a call in to MI6 to ask precisely why they couldn't stop their Agents from performing such pathetic stunts while drunk.

From not far away, the smell of toast cooking drifted into Sydney's nose. She turned and reached what turned out to be the kitchen almost at a jog, shoving open the door in a hurry, presuming that the cook would be inside getting breakfast ready. As it turned out, it wasn't the cook.

A tall, elegant man stood in front of her, six feet tall, slim and elegant with a dancers legs and hips added to a wrestlers shoulders and arms. A barrel chest almost made him seem built rather than born his almost sculpted body seemed so strangely shaped, but a long, aristocratic face so clearly displayed the kind of ageing good looks that only a rich and healthy lifetime could create that she knew it was all natural. Long black hair flecked with silver fell to his shoulders in a way no man in what was at least his mid sixties should have been able to carry off, but he made it look like a fashion statement everyone should consider.

Black trousers and well-shined shoes added to a pressed, crisp white shirt and bright red tie made him look far too awake and aware for so early in the morning-her internal clock said it was about 0630, assuming it hadn't been knocked out of alignment by her drunken escapades. A black jacket that hung off of the back of his chair was clearly his, but at the moment she could still see the silver Swiss watch that told the time in six different time zones.

She was startled to meet the man, since she was completely sure Monica had stated he was out of the city on business, but she still knew who he was instantly. Giancarlo Messolina, Monica's father and almost certainly the most skilled Lawyer Italy had produced since World War II. Even as she found herself locking eyes with him-now she knew where Monica got such incredible eyes from, she realised-it occurred to her that what she was doing had to be a very bad idea. Giancarlo Messolina had been a Lawyer for almost half a century, he dealt with professional liars, people who made it their business _never_ to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth and probably people who threatened his life and/or sanity on a daily basis.

This wasn't a man who would be fooled by a casual lie, any attempt at blindsiding or only part of an answer. He could likely read people like books and tell when they weren't being honest by a twitch of the eyebrow or less. He was the _very_ last person she should make any attempt at getting to know, because if anyone she met was particularly likely to see through her Cover he was it. So, just what _was_ she doing standing here meeting his eyes like this...?

"Good morning. I take it you are not drunk now?" he asked, politely, his English flawless. He even had an English accent, she was sure, given her ear for accents after so many years in the trade.

"I'm sober now, if hung over. Why?" she replied, cautiously, not sure what he could be talking about. Of course, she had no idea when he'd arrived home, so he could have been talking about anything?

"I ask because while I am well used to my daughter bringing her lovers home to use them up, I am _not_ used to beautiful nude women running around my house in my daughters company at three in the morning. I am even _less_ used to beautiful nude women young enough to be my child asking me if they can borrow my toothbrush and asking me for sex in the same sentence. Not that I am complaining, you understand, but I did not have a spare toothbrush and my daughter seemed quite...insistent on your company. However, I must point out now that the screaming kept me awake for the rest of the night, so my being awakened at such an hour was no loss to me in the end" replied Giancarlo, raising an eyebrow as he continued to stare straight at her.

Sydney felt as though her skin was on fire. She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her. She wanted to curl up and die on the spot. If there was a way she could be any more embarrassed than she already was, she didn't want to know what it was. She had no doubt that Giancarlo was telling the truth, he clearly wasn't the type who casually told jokes. But, that she'd propositioned a man over thirty years older than her, even _drunk_?!

An engine roared outside, dragging her head around to stare out of the kitchen window as a car she didn't recognise came to a screeching halt in the parking area at the back of the mansion. A tall, dark figure leapt out of the drivers side door before the car had stopped and stormed towards the door, a woman she identified as Anna Espinosa, who looked about as angry as Sydney had ever seen her. Which was saying something. _Now_ what had happened?

Anna reached the door and shoved it, but the door was locked and wouldn't open. She kicked it, then again, before Giancarlo finished his toast, rose and unlocked it. She tried to power on inside, but stopped dead on collision with Giancarlo as though she'd hit a wall. They engaged in a staring contest that Sydney had no doubt was a battle of wills, but she had no doubt who would win even given the fact she'd only just met the man. She wasn't entirely sure what would happen if Anna tried force to make her way past the old man, either.

"Ow, ow, ow... If I beg, will someone please, _please_ pour me a pint of black coffee? If I don't get it soon, I think I might actually die..." muttered Kate, as she stumbled into the kitchen still wearing nothing but a now-soaked flag, her bloodshot eyes half-closed in a way which had "Hung over" written in very large letters. When she saw Anna she stopped moving, shook her head, winced and sighed.

"I thought the British liked tea, Kate. Anna, if you touch my father you will wake up naked and alone being tortured by cannibals in North Africa tomorrow and no one will miss you, or care. _Good_ morning, Julia" said Monica, as she strode into the kitchen, freshly showered and looking none the worse for wear. She was wearing a close-fitting sky blue dress that highlighted her skin and hair colour and that-Sydney couldn't help but notice-did wonders to highlight her figure.

She swallowed, she _really_ had to avoid thinking of Monica like that. No matter what, no matter just how lonely she'd become during six months Undercover presumed dead and buried by everyone she loved and cared about, following nine months of..._torture_ wasn't a strong enough word. _Abuse_ was better. After all of that? Despite everything? She could _not_ let herself loose it to the point that she trusted the woman, let alone began sharing her bed as anything other than a drunken one-night stand.

"You _bitch_, Kate, you actually sold me to those Strippers! I should take your _face_ off for that!" snapped Anna, from in front of Giancarlo, who still hadn't moved and showed no sign of doing so.

"Oh, shut up you mad Communist Whore. So I made a profit out of getting those two brothers into bed with you, how sad. Big deal! _You_ kept telling me that one was never enough for you, so either get over it or do something before you get so drunk you don't know what your doing next time. Nobody _made_ you pay them for a Private dance in the back before you left and _you_ were the one who started trying to tear their trousers off before the three of you had even left the club. Either stop getting drunk or stop complaining, choose one" Kate snapped back, even as she literally spooned half a mugs worth of coffee into the largest mug she could find and boiled the kettle.

"...Fine, fine, I asked for that, but If I had paid _them_ for it it would have been different. Nobody just _gets_ me like I am some kind of capitalist Whore. If this happens again, remember that" returned Anna, pointedly.

"Fair enough. Coffee?" replied Kate, even as Giancarlo finally got out of Anna's way...

_LA, 2007, two days ago_

"Well, Sydney, you did ask how we came to end up together..." said Monica, as she played with the blushing Sydney's hair. From the expression on Sydney's face, it was quite clear that she'd remembered none of that.

It raised the question, of course, of just what _else_ the younger woman didn't remember. Now _there_ was a question with any number of answers...

/End of Chapter 24. All Reviews welcomed/.


	25. Chapter 25

Legal disclaimers: see earlier parts.

Disclaimers: see earlier parts.

**The Last Day**

_Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 2007, two days ago_

Aishwariya Nevata wasn't insane, or crazy, despite what almost everyone she'd ever met thought. She'd been diagnosed as everything from Psychotic and schizophrenic to brain damaged, but the reality was far more complicated. She was simply... _different_. She had real trouble distinguishing between right and wrong, for example, but after what had happened to her when she was young that was no surprise, or at least she thought so.

Beyond that, she just didn't _fit_. "Normal" people were able to work nine to five jobs, go home to Wife or Husband and children at the end of the day, live in a nice house, even keep pets. They would live their three score and twenty out, more if they were very lucky, then go into the ground, one way or another, life lived.

If she'd ever tried to live like that, she'd have strangled someone by the end of the day to make life more interesting. Burnt down the house for a laugh. Seduced the best looking Married man in the neighbourhood for the Hell of it. Indulged in Mass Murder just to see what she could get away with.

Something inside her had been lit the day she was born, a fire which had only been stoked by an extraordinary early life which had shredded any sanity she'd ever possessed and put so much anger in her blood that her heart had boiled black with the heat of it. She reacted and acted without thinking, did what she wanted and engaged in acts of monstrosity just because she could.

One day she might give a homeless child money and good advice that would take her or him off the streets for good. The next she might push someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time in front of a bus because it seemed funny and she was terrible with practical jokes.

She could recall an ex-boyfriend, an American of course, whom she'd enjoyed but never even considered liking. He'd called her a heartless bitch, so she'd opened up his chest while he was still alive and given him an anatomy lesson to demonstrate that everyone had one, they just weren't always used for more than the purpose of supporting life. His expression just before he'd died, his own heart the last thing he ever saw, told her that he'd gotten the message. It had only occurred to her later that maybe she should have left him alive so he'd remember for next time.

Marcus Dixon had _never_, _ever_ done anything which would make her angry, piss her off or even just get a rise out of her. He wouldn't lay hand on her because he was happily married with two young children when she made the offer, not even after she showed him what he'd be missing. He'd stood by her side in combat and trusted her to watch his back, granted her the respect she was due without question... He was the _one_ man she knew who'd done everything _right_.

She supposed that was why she'd fallen for him, been unable to deny him anything he'd asked of her-if only he'd known that. When she'd heard that he was being targeted, she'd made sure to be in place where the hit would occur _before_ it happened, to be sure. If she lost him, she didn't know _what_ she'd do... Which made what she was staring at now all the worse.

It also made the thick pall of smoke coming from the jungle she was crashing the Humvee through all the important. Dixon's Partner was aboard that plane, she knew, so she had to make sure the young woman survived all of this. There were things that she needed to say, that needed to be done...

Y

Nadia didn't have time to even suck in a breath before the wrecked plane went into a twisting free-fall, rocking from side to side and even flipping over as it fell towards the ground. The ground level visible out of the planes side windows twisted and turned at impossible angles as the planes howling engine rose to a Banshee shriek, then suddenly died with a death rattle that seemed to almost shake the plane apart.

A stomach-wrenching screech echoed as the entire plane rolled over again, the wreckage in front making it front-heavy pressing deeper into the cockpit-before the entire roof of the cockpit section tore loose with a screeching howl of pain that came from the bowels of Hell. Suddenly free of any obstructions the shattered remnants of the transporter planes engine shot forwards as though it was trying to kill those barely holding on inside the plane...

Nadia threw herself down faster than she'd ever moved in her life, clearing the jagged shreds of metal and plastic coming to kill her by so little distance that she felt them tear the back of her shirt. Almost too shocked to do anything else, she still had the presence of mind left to her to grab the metal seat frame in a death grip as gusting winds and gravity combined to tear her out of the crashing plane altogether, to her certain death.

Randi wasn't quite fast enough, being forced to throw up her injured arm to protect her head as she ducked desperately. Nadia heard the crack of breaking bones and glimpsed pale white bone tearing through flesh in an explosion of torn meat and spraying blood as Randi's scream of utter agony was lost to the wind. That was one second before Randi's own broken arm collided with her head which such force she was knocked unconscious even as Nadia saw the already-damaged arm be forced right out of the socket at the shoulder, blood streaming down the woman's arm from her shoulder instantly.

Sarah, though, the closest to the wreckage, fared the worst. She didn't have time to take cover or duck and could only, at best, try to roll with it. It didn't work.

The wreckage hit her head-on and began by hitting her upper body so hard that almost every bone in her chest, arms, head and neck was simply pulverised. Flesh tore even as what was left of Sarah's body was crushed into the frame of her seat and the cockpit, blood pouring out in appalling quantities, splashing all over the plane and those in it as wind and gravity seemed to try to paint the whole world with the dead woman's blood. Sarah died of shock so quickly that she never knew what happened after the impact, which was a small mercy considering what followed. That Nadia and Randi could remember later, anyway.

Nadia's centre of gravity disintegrated utterly as the destroyed plane span around and around in mid-air like a demented three-dimensional clock. She couldn't even see straight as the air pressure and gale-force winds dragged tears from her eyes which obscured everything and made the fast approaching ground nothing but a terrifying blur. It didn't stop her from just about making out the shapes of tall trees as the plane fell into them, though, as though they were smashed down by the hand of God...

Nadia said a short, silent Prayer. She didn't want to die.

The plane hit the trees with the kind of mind-numbing impact Nadia would have once associated with being caught up in the detonation of a nuclear bomb. The whole world screamed at her, even as the plane lost both wings in the first few seconds of contact.

Slashing branches dug into her skin, tore at her hair and threatened her eyes. One bit into her leg and nearly stayed stuck in long enough to threaten to physically wrench her out of the aircraft. She strained every muscle in her body to the degree that her vision became a thin black tunnel and was coated in bloody red even as her heart seemed to tear inside her chest as the ultimate effort threatened to kill her. It was worth it, though, she kept herself inside the wreckage, the branch carving its way out of her leg, giving her a very slight chance of survival.

Then they hit the ground so hard that the remains of the aircraft sank six inches into the dirt forest floor. The impact drove her down into the ground with such force her head connected so hard with the planes deck that she saw stars and felt blood splatter everywhere as her teeth crushed her lips into the floor, biting deep as she found herself with no control of her own body. Her breath erupted out of her with such force that for a long moment everything went away, only when it came back her entire body was screaming at her about pain and forms of suffering she wasn't aware were even possible outside of TV. shows. If she didn't have broken bones and internal injuries, she'd used up all the luck she'd ever have...

Crashes, clanks and the echoing rumble of various heavy objects falling down all around echoed for over a minute before Nadia realised that she wasn't dead and had, in fact, survived the crash. All she could do was assume that it really wasn't her time, that God had other plans for her yet. Yet again, she wished that mission specs let her wear her Crucifix on Ops, but she never argued when it came to getting the job done. She was a professional, just like her sister and her father-and Jack-and the others at APO.

Then she smelt the sickly-sweet tangy scent of what could only be aviation fuel, such a strong stench that the main fuel tank of the plane had to have been not only punctured but torn open for such a quantity to have spilled. The plane had been utterly destroyed, but modern aircraft had wires and electrical power points everywhere and she knew it. All it would take would be a single spark to land in the right place...

She still couldn't move, at best her entire body was in shock and was incapable of responding to her minds commands. At worst, she'd suffered a spinal injury and was paralysed. Under the circumstances, with maybe seconds at best to do anything at all, whichever it was didn't ultimately matter. She was still going to die-and she was so, so afraid of dying for a reason it wasn't easy to put into words.

It wasn't that she was afraid of death or dying, she risked life, limb and sanity every day given her job. She knew that and accepted the risks without hesitation. No, it was the fact that she had a _family_ now, that was the only way to really explain it, a sense of _belonging_ that ultimately gave her something to loose she'd never even considered before. Not really. She'd never, ever realised just how _alone_ in the world she was before she'd met her sister. She didn't want to loose that and, as odd as it sounded given that death took _everything_ from you, forever, she didn't think she'd survive it if she lost the family she'd never known she had...

Her sense of smell still worked, so did her eyes, so she spotted the spark coming from a tore electrical line even unable to move her head. The heavy, thick stink of the aviation fuel now sloshing out onto saturated ground was only getting worse, threatening to choke her now. She'd be incinerated in seconds if the fuel lit off while she was drenched in it, they'd have to identify whatever was left of her charred corpse using dental records, if there was enough left of her to do _that_ with.

If she somehow survived all of this, she was going to have to put a stop to the CSI marathons she and Sydney had been running for weeks late in the evenings when they were both home at the same time. Even by the standards of her profession, she knew far too much about death and the awful ways you could die now-

A roaring engine abruptly sounded nearby, coming closer fast, then it stopped approaching but the engine kept running. She could just make out what could only be the sound of someone crashing through the surrounding greenery at great speed on foot before a tall, dark figure erupted from the greenery, paused for a second to search her out then ran over.

She could barely make out who it was even as she managed to twist her head around a little, her eyes weren't focusing properly-probably a Concussion-but she momentarily thought it was Dixon, arriving in the nick of time. As her eyes slowly focused, however, she quickly became aware that wasn't the case. The exotic woman in front of her wasn't Dixon, it was the woman she'd seen him with in the firefight by the airport gate.

The woman didn't pause to check if Nadia was alright or even conscious, she simply scooped her up in a fireman's lift and sprinted back to the Humvee she'd arrived in with Nadia bouncing on her shoulders like a sack of potatoes. The woman moved so fast Nadia wasn't even sure she'd noticed the extra weight, for the long second before she was tossed none-too-gently onto the backseat of the Humvee. The woman turned and sprinted away again, before returning seconds later with the limp, mangled Randi, which she unceremoniously dumped on top of Nadia.

That done, she leapt back into the drivers seat of the Humvee, slammed it into reverse and gunned the engine, spinning the wheel as hard around as could be. The Humvee shot backwards and span left so fast that the heavy wheels slid in the earth and greenery, before she slammed it into forwards drive and rammed her foot all the way down. The big vehicle leapt ahead like a thoroughbred champion racehorse and raced through the torn-up forest as though it was being driven on by hurricane winds.

This, as it turned out, was a very good idea. For more than one reason.

At best thirty seconds after they got moving, Nadia smelt heavy smoke and the chemical stink of fire burning unnatural fuel. She knew what that meant-and a second later the wrecked planes fuel tank blew up like a small bomb, blasting flat trees, grasses, plants and anything else standing even as it tore out a crater in the ground. Nadia, at best semiconscious, felt the sheer force of the explosive concussion shake the entire vehicle and every bone in her body even as the rear half of the Humvee briefly left the ground.

Following that, a fireball so bright the sudden flash reached her eyes through eyelids sliding shut and jerked her awake again flared thirty foot into the air in a volcanic blast of heat and destruction. Everything the fireball hit that wasn't simply incinerated lit up like a Roman Candle, a massive blaze swallowing the crash site so quickly that, for a brief moment, it almost seemed likely to take in the Humvee as well...

That, Nadia had to admit, would cover their tracks very well indeed. It would take them days if not weeks just to determine if anything human was left in the melted wreckage and longer to identify the body, if they even could. Somehow, despite the horror of how she'd died, Nadia couldn't help but think that Cremation was a good way to go for the warrior Sarah had so clearly been in life. She had to have died so quickly, there was no way she could have suffered-and her mortal remains would be mixed with soil of where she fought her last battle.

The shock of her own survival seemed to have revived her somewhat, her body was responding again, if slowly. She tried to lever herself up, only to find the floor giving under her hands. It was at that point she realised that she'd been dumped on top of someone else's body, herself.

Steeling herself, she levered herself up enough to take in the face-and her heart nearly stopped when she realised just who she was touching, who was dead. Her already almost overwhelmed mind simply couldn't take any more at that point.

His dark skin was paler than she'd ever seen it, his strong chest still, his grim face slack and motionless, his sharp, intelligent eyes dull and empty. His sharp suit was soaked in blood from several wounds, his always well-maintained hair was mussed and disturbed. Those were just the details she took in, her mind noting them automatically.

Marcus Dixon, she knew who it was, it was _him_. Marcus Dixon was _dead_.

It was her fault, it had to be. He'd been doing his best to protect and assist her and all she'd really succeeded in doing was providing target practice, failing him in every way. It was _her fault...!_

This time, when darkness suddenly reared up to snatch her away from the waking world and drag her all the way down into a Hell of lost dreams, shattered illusions, pain and loss, she welcomed it. It was her time.

_LA_

Artemisia Hades and Toni Cummings had reached LA and were on their way to a drop-point where Artemisia knew the older woman would be able to make contact with APO when Artemisia's mobile rang. She wasn't expecting a call, so she knew to expect the worst.

She lifted her mobile from her belt, flipped it open and checked caller ID. It was NS99. She blinked, breathed in so sharply that Toni turned to stare at her briefly, then took the call.

The caller spoke quickly and clearly in Latin, the language of choice for Contacts who knew her habits. NS99 was a very special Contact, though, who had only one task and very specific standing Orders, one of which dictated, very strictly, under what circumstances Artemisia herself was to be directly contacted. Everyone who'd taken a denarius from her hand knew the consequences of disobeying Orders-and of failing her. So for NS99 to be calling her out of the blue...

The more she heard the more angry she got, although the only outside sign of the fact was that her lips became increasingly tightly pressed together and her eyes narrowed even as her teeth clenched like a steel trap. Toni didn't know her well enough to be aware of the danger signs, so looked at her questioningly. Toni didn't know just how volatile she really was, just _what_ she was really capable of, what she'd _do_ under...certain circumstances.

None of that changed the facts, though. She had a deal with Toni, which had been fulfilled on both ends, so the older woman got a pass-_this_ time. More to the point and far more important, though, was the fact that she now had something of critical importance to deal with. No time for conversation.

She stood on the cars brakes and dragged the car over to the side of the road, fighting the cars skid the whole way until it came to a halt perfectly square to a parked car. Whipping a notebook and pencil out of the glove box she wrote quickly in English, shoved the note at the startled and open-mouthed Toni and shoved her.

"Out! Out of the car, Toni" she snapped, sharply, ignoring beeping horns and shouts from people in cars behind them who had only just managed to stop in time-although the occasional clatter and crunch told her not everyone had succeeded in doing so.

"Wait a minute, we had a deal-" said Toni, looking almost desperate. Artemisia almost slapped her at that, but just managed to stop herself.

"I've done my part, follow the instructions on that paper and you'll finish the job. OUT!" Artemisia growled, shoving at Toni with considerably greater force than her first attempt.

Toni grabbed the paper, opened the door and staggered out of the car, looking something between shocked and scared. "But..." she began, clearly not knowing what to say or do.

Artemisia ignored her, slamming down the accelerator and shutting the open door with just the force of acceleration. She needed to get to Vietnam, _now_.

_Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam_

"-UP!" someone shouted in her face, even as a massive impact that could only have been a slap snapped her head halfway around. Nadia blinked, tried to focus, failed, blinked again and found herself staring at the clear blue sky of Vietnam... Where was she? Why was she on her back-?

A second slap threatened to break her jaw as the person slapping her struck her again with greater force. She blinked again-then breathed in, sharply, feeling pins and needles as sensation suddenly sparked all over her body. She choked, coughed, choked and tried to move, but her muscles were jumping and she couldn't seem to focus enough on any part of her body to get a response.

"About _time_" snapped the voice-a woman's, Nadia now realised-and two hands suddenly grabbed her shirt to pull her up into a seated position. She found herself face-to-face with the woman who she'd seen fighting side by side with Dixon-

_Dixon_. Her heart skipped a beat, which seemed oddly painful for a reason she couldn't quite understand. It didn't matter. Dixon was _dead_, dead, dead...

The India woman shook her until her teeth rattled in her head. Nadia had to suspect that the woman was stronger than Weiss given the evident ease with which she'd manhandled both Nadia herself and Randi and from what she was seeing now. Injured or not, normally Nadia could very nearly match her boyfriend at the arm-wrestling contests they sometimes engaged in for...unusual reward. She suspected that this woman could have broken Weiss's arm with little difficulty.

"FOCUS, woman, I don't have _time_ for this. One of your friends is bleeding to death in front of you, one is dead and the Viet police and army are on the way. They catch us we are all _dead_, do you understand _that_?!" the India woman growled in her face. For a long moment, Nadia genuinely believed that the woman was going to bite her nose off, but then she pulled back a little. Nadia blinked again, but finally found her voice.

"...Y-yes, I...do. I do. But...who are you? What do you mean? They...wouldn't dare...?" she managed, slowly. The woman slapped her again, hard. She tasted blood in her mouth and took the hint, since she was in no shape to defend herself-for the moment, at least.

"Are you that _stupid_?! In case you haven't noticed, the US Ambassador is dead! Assassinated in Vietnam _after_ his escort was hit in the streets and practically wiped out, with no immediate reaction from the authorities! Any surviving witnesses of the actual assault can testify to all of this and you two are the only official one's left alive. You _can't_ make it home, do you understand _**that**_?!" snarled the Indian woman.

"Yes...I do. So what do we do?" asked Nadia, feeling an aching thump-thump in her head as her Concussion reminded her of just how hard her skull had been rattled in just one day.

"Take this Humvee and get back to the Embassy, don't stop for anything at all unless its because you're dead. Don't even stop to check your direction if you can avoid it. Any other questions?" snapped the Indian woman.

"Just one: what about Marcus?" asked Nadia, very quietly. She didn't miss the flash in the other woman's eyes, but didn't understand what she'd seen there for a second, either. Just who _was_ this woman? _What_ was she?

"He took a bullet in the leg during the attack on the Ambassadors convoy but kept going. When we crashed the guard at the airport front gate...he got shot again, cut with a knife. But none of that killed him, the bullet in his leg...it shifted during the crash, he must have realised too late. It nicked an artery and he couldn't stop the bleeding, he bled out before I could get back to him. I did everything I could...but it was too late..." replied the woman, pausing more than once as she spoke.

If Nadia was any judge of character-which she was, she had to be-the reason the woman was having trouble getting it out was because she was genuinely upset by Dixon's death. She wasn't sure why that seemed so strange to her, but she had no doubt that this was not a woman who shook easily, let alone got upset. If the look in her eyes was any indicator, she was on the verge of crying...

"Tell Robin and Steven I did everything possible, will you? Their father should never have died like this. For whatever it's worth, his killers are already dead. Maybe...one day, I'll be able to tell them that myself" continued the Indian woman, before she got back to her feet and easily leapt over the side of the car onto the street. They were parked in a back street somewhere, Nadia finally realised, as she registered the two tall buildings on their left and right sides, a tall wooden fence behind them.

"Wait...WAIT. What's your name?" asked Nadia, dragging herself upright quickly before the woman could disappear. She didn't doubt that if the woman went away, she'd never been seen again unless she wanted to be.

"Oh...why not. Aishwariya Nevata, although I've been called the Red Fox among other things. Don't die" replied Aishwariya, then she vaulted the fence and disappeared from sight. Nadia didn't even hear her land, let alone run off.

It took a long minute for her to focus past all of the pain she was suffering, all of the injuries that were trying to stop her from going on. But she did and, thankfully, despite her difficulty in focusing past increasing pain from her Concussion, she managed to get the Humvee started again. She forced herself not to look at the bloody mess she knew Randi would be in the back, if the other woman was even still alive. It was going to take everything she had left to get them to the Embassy and safety, if she could stay conscious that long.

Thankfully, even though she'd been distracted talking to Ambassador Frost and the Vietnamese army officer with him the first time around, she had sharp eyes and a good memory. The Humvee, even with both front tires flat, was easy to drive and so solid she could just point it the right direction and put her foot down unless either a building or a human being got in the way, given the strangely quiet streets. Given her shaky eyesight, that was a very good thing.

What really worried her as they quickly approached the Embassy, though, was the fact that she was feeling a growing pain in her chest, even though she had no memory of suffering any significant injury there. Had she missed something in the plane crash? Or had the crash itself torn something loose inside her? Either was almost terrifying as a thought.

Armed soldiers with heavy weapons were easily visible on the walls and rooftops of the Embassy from some way away. She was almost sure she'd be shot at before someone with a pair of binoculars saw who she was and the main gate swung open, allowing her immediate access, before slamming shut behind her so fast the rear of the Humvee nearly didn't get clear. Marines ran in to secure the gate after her, all of them heavily armed and looking ready to kill. Someone had hit the big red button marked "PANIC", Nadia couldn't help but think. Not that it was a mistake to have done so.

As she reached the Embassy itself, where she had to stop to avoid running over a group of frantic-looking Embassy officials and senior military officers, including Sarah's junior JAG Partner, she felt sudden shooting pains criss-crossing her chest. Then it seemed as though her heart was being crushed in a fist and her left arm started to jerk uncontrollably, pain flashing up and down it even as heavy weight seemed to settle down over her heart _inside_ her chest.

_No_. She knew what this was, but after everything _it_ didn't get to kill her. She fought against the awful pain with every shred of willpower and every ounce of strength she had left. Too little, too late, she was exhausted, badly injured and bleeding out from too many wounds, some of them deep one's. She couldn't stop this. _NO!_

She just managed to make it to her feet, even as the whole world seemed to shake, blinking in and out of existence in front of her eyes. Some of the men watching realised something was seriously wrong and leapt for the Humvee, but they were too late as well. She tried to open the door, hoping that she could at least fall into the arms of one of the soldiers and be rushed to the Infirmary for help, but she didn't make it.

Everything faded away one last time, she thought she might have tried and failed to scream, but the last thing she saw was the ground coming up to meet her as she fell helplessly out of the Humvee onto the tarmac head-first. _No..._

...Light and life blinked back in for a moment, she realised she was lying in the arms of the young JAG officer, who had evidently caught her before she hit the ground with a flying tackle that would have done a professional footballer proud. He was supporting her head while gingerly lowering her to the ground, clearly trying to work out what was wrong, what he should do...

...The world clicked back on again like a switch. She was in the JAG officer's arms and he was carrying her at a sprint through the hallways of the Embassy, kicking doors open as he went. She wondered whether or not he'd make it in time, even as she picked up on the sound of hammering feet following close behind. Evidently, she was of some importance to these people, it seemed...

..."_Heart attack_! Get the defibrillator!" the Doctor was shouting, almost in her face. She wondered, dreamily, if he knew that she could hear him. She doubted it, somehow...

...Her periods of consciousness were getting shorter. She had little time left. There was so much left to live for, but her body was betraying her and giving up on it all. Worse, there was nothing she could do. She had no strength left to fight with...

...Then she saw _him_, as he came crashing into the Infirmary with a thunderous expression on his face and murder in his eyes. He dominated the room without trying, despite the ranking soldiers and other Embassy officials in the Infirmary who the Nurse was already trying to shoo out of it, without success. When he came in it was the difference between the God of War and rocks on the ground on a battlefield, they all turned like clockwork figures to stare at him as though there was nothing else in the world.

"Everyone but medical staff out of the room. Now" he said, his voice just the way she remembered it, but so cold that ice would have formed in Hell if he'd spoken aloud there. She wondered whether anyone would be stupid enough to even try to argue with him.

"Hold on, we need to talk to her. You can't just-" replied a middle-aged soldier who appeared to be the most senior soldier in the room-possibly the Embassy, given what Nadia could see of his rank markings.

The man didn't bother speaking even one word aloud, he just turned and _looked_ at all of the other men in the room. The man who had been speaking stopped, then all of them left so abruptly it was almost entertaining. That done, he walked over to her and took her left hand in both of his.

..."Don't die, Nadia, I'm here for you now" he said, his voice gentle but firm, just like his grip. He squeezed her hand, she did her best to return it even as the world started to fall away again as the Nurse managed to cut away her shirt even while the Doctor slung an oxygen mask around her head...

..."Jack...?" she managed to whisper, her last word before everything finally went away again and she felt a massive pain surging through her chest again. Still, if Jack Bristow was the last thing she ever saw, she could live with that...or not. Ha, play on words on her death bed...

/End of Chapter 25. All Reviews welcomed/.


	26. Chapter 26

Legal disclaimers: see earlier parts.

Disclaimers: see earlier parts.

**The Last Day**

_APO_

After Seraphine Nagel had Cleaned up the problem she'd largely created, Sloane had made a brief trip back to his apartment to clean up and replace his ruined clothes, burning them in the apartment incinerator to be sure, before heading back to APO. Sydney, a ten-second telephone call had confirmed, was at her apartment and would remain there until further notice or in case of an emergency. Weiss and Marshall were still running down leads, Jack was still missing. Nadia and Dixon were making progress in Vietnam with their investigation.

The investigation into Jason Bourne and his current activities, his reasons, resources and ultimate plan was therefore going nowhere-so far. They _would_ find something eventually, he knew how these things worked, particularly where experienced professionals as highly trained as Bourne were involved. The trick was to get ahead of them, because when you weren't? People died, the same lives you were trying to preserve were snatched out from under you before one even realised that it had happened.

He honestly didn't care about the cost of human lives lost, though, just what it took to get the job done. His job was to stop Bourne, capture him if possible, kill him if not. He'd do whatever it took, matters were that simple for him and had been ever since he'd first heard the name "Rambaldi", thirty-five years ago.

Only his Wife had always existed outside of the quest, the mission-then he'd lost her and, in reality, the only brake he'd had left on his obsession had been torn away. He'd proved that with his increasingly demented pursuit of the Sphere of Life in Sienna.

He'd ignored his own daughters increasingly frantic protests and nearly killed himself-and her-in an attempt to recover the Sphere he'd have recognised was doomed to failure from the start if he'd been anything close to rational. If Nadia hadn't managed to drag him out of the pit he'd fallen into, bind his wounds and carry his dead weight halfway down the mountain, he'd have died. There was no third option-and that very fact had forced him to realise one ultimate truth: Nadia, his flesh and blood, meant more to him than Rambaldi ever could...or, rather, _should_.

It had effectively taken his own _death_ to make him realise the fact, but he had. He just hoped that she would be able to forgive him, some day. Or, at least, understand him...

On returning to APO, he'd quickly caught up with the lack of progress being made and added some new lines of enquiry to be followed up on. An E-Mail to Marshall had set things in motion, then he'd turned to his computer and begun looking into certain matters himself.

Then his phone had started flashing, the red light-an incoming call from an unknown, unsecured number. _That_ had gotten his attention, the number of people who knew APO existed didn't reach double figures outside of the APO staff and Director Chase herself. Those who knew the number for his direct line? The APO main team, Director Chase and the emergency contact inside Langley. It wasn't a number which _could_ be called by accident.

He picked up the phone anyway, he hadn't joined APO to live a quiet life. Regardless, anyone who lived a life like his didn't expect to die in bed.

"Hello?" he asked, not sure what to expect. The voice he heard left even him speechless, though, for a long moment.

"_It's me, don't use any identification over this line. If you recognise my voice, say yes_" came a voice he knew only too well.

"Yes. What do you need?" he replied, well aware that the person at the other end of the line would only have called him on an unsecured line in an emergency. Jack Bristow, of all people, knew the absolute necessity of keeping one's secrets secret.

"_Vietnam. The Ambassadors convoy has been hit, he's been removed, there are casualties. You'll hear more soon. Be ready, I'll be in touch_" replied Jack, then he hung up.

Sloane had hit the speed-dial for Chases direct line within five seconds of Jacks call. Chase picked up before the first ring, even as Marshall's voice abruptly began to rise to a panicked shout.

"_You've heard about Vietnam_" Chase said, without preamble. It wasn't a question.

"Yes, Ambassador Frost has been abducted and Agents are down, casualties unknown, point of origin and force involved unknown. I'm putting my people on finding out more now" replied Sloane, before Chase's reply made him stop dead.

"_You do that, but my Intel is more current than yours and you need to hear this. Frost was taken aboard a transporter plane, but he was old school and had an incendiary bomb in his chest set to go off if his heart stopped. I know he's dead because the bomb went off and torched the planes fuel tanks in flight, the explosion threw debris over a mile from detonation. Recovery is no longer an issue_" said Chase. Sloane had to pause to plan a new approach, but Chase beat him too it.

"_There's more. Randi Russell, CIA Section Chief in Ho Chi Minh City, was aboard a pursuing plane when the transporter went up. The explosion took her plane down too... Arvin, Nadia Santos was aboard the pursuit plane as well. The status of both is currently a complete unknown_" Chase continued, her voice more gentle than usual when she used his daughters name. His hand closed with such force that it was a credit to the designers the device didn't simply disintegrate in his hand.

"I see. Thank you, Director" he replied, hanging up even as something he kept buried in the darkness behind his eyes shifted slightly in the silence he forced there now. The man he had been was gone, he'd promised his daughter that and he'd keep his promise, but what had _made_ him who he was remained inside him. If something had happened to his daughter? He'd let it all out again and play with his food. He'd teach them such things about pain that they'd die screaming and forget to stop when they reached Hell, long after he was done.

He stood up, walked out of his office and looked directly at Weiss. He needed a man on the ground who would do anything at all to protect his daughter, a capable and trustworthy Agent. Who better than his daughter's would-be lover? He suspected that the man wasn't that bright, sometimes, he was certainly unimaginative, but he was a professional and, more to the point, he was very capable in a fight. Right now, Nadia needed a bodyguard more than anything else, even with Jack there. The decision, in the end, was easy.

"Agent Weiss, pack your bags. Your on your way to Vietnam in one hour" said Sloane, even as the evidently startled Weiss looked up at him directly. Given the look on his face as he took in Sloane's expression he clearly, quickly, realised that Nadia was involved...

_LA_

"Well, Sydney? It's the only way your ever going to get the full truth behind what happened to you, what you did..." said Monica, her delicious voice so soft that it was practically a caress. Sydney wouldn't admit it, but Monica's voice wasn't what she wanted caressing her. What she had in mind was considerably more graphic-and nowhere near as disturbing as it should have been. What that meant to her, she didn't dare think on too hard. Especially given that she didn't even remember the woman.

She sighed. This kind of choice was really no choice at all, was it?

"Alright, I'm in. But if anything goes wrong, its _you_ I'll be coming after for it" she said, pointedly, staring Monica straight in the eyes. Monica's answering smile was slow, lingering and made Sydney think of things she had no business even imagining. She was starting to think she'd be safer trusting Anna Espinosa with a gun at her back.

"Ah, Sydney...how much you have to learn" Monica replied, simply. Sydney didn't like the look in Monica's eyes when the older woman spoke so softly. Just _what_ did she know that Sydney didn't, about her own missing time? She knew herself better than that, there were line's she'd _never_ cross-right? _Right..._?

/End of Chapter 26. All Reviews welcomed/.


	27. Chapter 27

Legal disclaimers: see earlier parts.

Disclaimers: see earlier parts.

**The Last Day**

_New York, two days ago_

Nobody came down into this part of New York any more, not even the Police, except in packs. Fragments of newspapers drifted around his legs as he strode on, while he skirted rotting food and debris that piled up on the cracking pavements like fragments of bodies on some battlefields he'd seen. Even as the darkness of night swallowed the sky overhead smashed windows shards threw back scattered splinters of light from the few dully-glowing streetlights still working in the area, a depth of shadow that had no business existing in the modern world, let alone the middle of a city.

A dozen people could have been standing within twenty feet of him and he'd never have known with his eyes alone. If there was a modern world that lit up the forgotten shadows of humanities dark places it didn't reach here, which he found rather fitting. He'd stopped pretending that he was anything other than the killer he still was in 1970, he'd just drawn down the blinds and shutters and let a small part of the man he had been before the bombs-before he'd watched his whole family die-slip out for her benefit.

That the man she thought she knew was all that was left of the man he _had_ been and no longer was, she'd never understand. She loved the ghost of a man who couldn't let go, not the monster he'd become. David Webb was _dead_, even the CIA had realised that years ago, but Marie had done everything she could over the years to help him rebuild his destroyed memory and go back to being the man he'd been, so long ago. For her he'd tried, he really had, but he couldn't lie to himself even if he _could_ fool himself so well that he could convince his own Wife.

He only felt at home in the darkness now, in amongst the blood, driven by the violence, alive at the sight of carnage. As he'd gotten older it had only gotten worse, until he'd ended up spending hours just walking, speaking to nobody, trying to force his mind and body to do what he thought he wanted...sometimes. Marie had left him to it, been there when he needed her. She was sure that he would work matters out in his own head that, even after almost thirty years, he could and would become again the man she believed she knew and loved. He hadn't believed that in longer than he wanted to remember.

Now here he was again, down among the dead men one last time-and looking forwards to it. All of the shutters were torn down and gone, the veneer of civilisation torn down and burnt away. The Assassin was back, one last time, for one last job, the most important one he'd ever had to complete. Now he just had to live to complete it.

The townhouse he wanted didn't look any different than most on the outside. Walls covered with a decaying, fragmented layer of paint slowly peeling off, iron grills protecting the windows, a flat roof with TV and radio aerials sticking up above the slight hump which contained the door to the roof. In reality, it seemed just like every other abandoned or just-about house in the area. You had to look harder to see the oddities.

The glass in the windows of this building was completely undamaged, the walls were solid and intact, the thick seemingly just wooden front door was still on its hinges, upright and secure, the Spy hole uncovered. Odd as it seemed to be, even to him, he got the impression he was looking at a fortress in a lost land that even the worst of the street gangs wouldn't go near, let alone touch.

He had to wonder just what the Hell Cactus was into or had had to do to gain the kind of reputation that people wouldn't even mark his home. The old man was over ninety now, unless he'd signed up to do work for some very serious people then he had to have hired one or more to keep his place secure. Webb just laughed away even the notion that Cactus would sign up with organised crime, the old mans clientele had always been far more exclusive, demanding and richer than any petty Crime Lord could hope to match.

He'd made sure to steer clear of any details he didn't need to know about Cactus's business over the years as a professional courtesy, but whispers had still reached his ears over the decades they'd known each other. Cactus had done work for anyone who could pay he regarded as worth his time-a qualification that had never been argued with-for over fifty years, starting just after WWII, when the old man had discovered he possessed a real gift for forgery. He'd mainly done work for independents like Bourne, back before Webb had gotten too old to go on being that man, but had done work for the CIA, MI6 and even Mossad if the rumours were true.

The old man had never, ever discussed his work with anyone, had no living family in the world, friends who killed Presidents as a test run and a client list that would topple the US Government if he asked everyone on it to do him a favour. That kept the powerful people off of his back. But, as for those who didn't know the old man for who he was, what he was, what he had been? What was keeping them away was a very different thing.

He knew that the old mans home would have concealed surveillance equipment covering every angle of approach, above and below ground. He knew it would exceed state of the art, because Cactus was the kind of master of a craft who moved with the times and made use of every resource at his disposal, written, printed, electronic, all of them. Cactus could have stolen the identity of the Director of the CIA and nobody would ever have been able to track down who'd done it, that was how clean the old mans work was. That was what Webb needed now.

Thinking that, he walked up to the heavy door and knocked sharply, the sound echoing. The walls and door were evidently thicker than he'd imagined because when he caught a glimpse of an eye appearing briefly at the spy hole, he knew he hadn't heard a thing-nor sensed anyone approaching.

Something behind the door thumped, more than once, security deadbolts Webb had no doubt, then the door opened maybe three inches, security chains still holding the door. The figure at the door wasn't who he'd expected-although, to be fair, he wasn't sure what he _should_ have been expecting. It wasn't as though he'd expected Cactus to answer the door himself, after all. Still, a woman? A young woman? Was he missing something?

"Name" said the woman, her voice a growl of threatened violence and pain. Her voice was smooth and musical, he couldn't help but notice. He also noticed that what he could see of her face made it clear that she wasn't really asking him his name out of polite curiosity. She'd crack his skull with a baseball bat and leave him unconscious and bleeding to die on the cities streets unless he told her what she wanted to know, he knew the type.

"David Webb" he answered, honestly, looking her in the eyes so she'd believe him. He was the Assassin, his eyes didn't tell anyone what he didn't want them to know, but it helped convince people he was serious when he locked eyes with them.

"Last chance" she replied, even as he felt a sudden pressure against his throat. He looked down, blinked and stared back at her. She was holding a combat knife to his throat, the kind of much-sharpened bloody-edge razor blade knife that had been carried through Wars, seen combat and slaughtered far more than its fair share of enemies. He had no doubt that she'd use it to kill him too, if it came to it.

What really worried him, though, was the fact that she'd managed to get a weapon against his skin without him noticing her doing it, or even registering the movement. Even at his age he was no easy mark, but the kind of skill on display with this woman made it clear he was dealing with a serious professional. A very highly trained serious professional. Special Forces? It would explain the total lack of attacks on Cactus's place, nobody would want to piss off a SO killing machine who could kill them in ways that would have thirty-year Homicide Cop veterans literally running from the scene in horror using just her bare hands.

"Brer Rabbit" he replied, using the old mans nickname for him, a nickname that only the old man and he really knew the significance of. He wondered if she'd know what it meant.

The knife disappeared from his throat, the door closed and rattled, then swung open entirely to reveal a dark entrance passageway. Smart girl, with no light to outline her or highlight her any shooter would be making a best guess shot at her-and she didn't strike him as the type to need a second chance.

"Come in, I'll tell him you're here" she said. He stepped inside and she locked the door-which, he could see in the dim streetlight, was backed with steel braces-before striding on past him with a very pleasant swaying gait. With long, powerful legs and a smooth, animal grace to her movements he was glad he was happily Married man as she disappeared from sight around the corner. Thirty years ago, before he'd met Marie, a woman with legs like that would have been worth walking over hot coals for.

He was slightly taller than her, but he was thirty years older than her and not as steady as he had been on his feet just ten years ago, let alone twenty. She easily left him behind and turned the corner. He followed her to what turned out to be the living room, the first light in the house appearing, two armchairs and a sofa all a gunmetal grey in colour. A smooth carpet was black and provided good traction, while the walls were painted a simple pure white.

A large TV with a DVD player sat in one corner, away from a single external window, while against the inside wall by the hallway entrance a glass cabinet contained various alcoholic drinks and glasses. Opposite the TV an expensive looking stereo system sat in another corner, next to it a box cupboard which he had no doubt contained all sorts of music.

Home for someone with simple but definite tastes, Webb recognised. Cactus, in this case, who could have lived like a King but preferred to live life like the man he was, a simple New York pavement boy made good who saw no need to advertise the fact. Cactus was close to the best in the world at what he did, easily in the top three even at his age, but Webb had no doubt that ransacking the house and beating Cactus to death while questioning him, hard, would never reveal the truth of the man.

Cactus had fought his way right through WWII and Korea despite being wounded several times, driven a cab in late 40's New York when just the colour of his skin could have gotten him killed in certain areas and gone to work for the CIA to provide flawless false ID's for the CIA-organised Bay of Pigs invasion of 1961. His job had been to help them get saboteur Agents behind enemy lines before the planned invasion-and he'd done just that.

Webb knew, from Cactus's old war stories, that not one of Cactus's Agents had been blown because of suspicious ID. They'd either died in action, been captured trying and failing to do their job or simply left Cuba later after the fallout of the failed invasion had settled down with even the KGB none the wiser. That event, though, had finished Cactus's direct involvement with the US Government.

He said the CIA knew going in that the assault would fail and it was all a PR stunt which went wrong, a strike against Communism on the US home front which was to prove that US forces could and would topple Castro any time they wanted to. The operation was so completely blown by incompetence, though, that the opposite was effectively proved. They'd thrown away peoples lives for a failed Politically motivated stunt designed to boost the CIA's standing amongst US intelligence circles which had, instead, effectively decapitated the organisation with the Director and his Deputy forced to Resign.

Cactus had seen the same happen before, in WWII and Korea, but unlike most he'd been smart enough to put it all together-and able to accept it as long as some real good was done. The utter failure of the Bay of Pigs invasion had made him move to the private sector for good, the rest was history. Webb didn't blame him at all, not after everything the US Government had put _him_ through since he'd joined up in 1970, after all.

He stopped as he finally got a good look at the woman. Five-eight tall, long-limbed and elegant, slim but with the kind of exceptionally well-developed physique that suggested unusual physical power in his experience. Waist-length jet black hair held in a tight ponytail down her back, delicious chocolate brown eyes-although he didn't miss the hard glint of ice, nor the suggestion of a cool, calculating intelligence-and the kind of curves and beauty that made men stop fantasising so they could concentrate on staring. Her Negroid physique only made her more striking, with prominent full red lips and skin so dark she looked like she'd stepped straight out of Africa from a thousand years ago.

Solid dark brown boots covered her feet, while black jeans outlined long legs. A black t-shirt completed the ensemble, with the words "_Fallen Angel_" printed on the front of the t-shirt in deep, dark bloody red. That made him realise what was on the back of the t-shirt, which he'd glimpsed but not understood. The back read "_Hells Paradise_".

"Just so were clear, "Brer"? Hurt my father, cause him to be hurt or worse? Even if you get out of here alive, I will hunt you down to the day I die just to cause you pain. Do you understand that?" asked the woman, her voice so cold he could almost feel ice forming in Hell.

"Perfectly, with just one issue. Cactus never had any children, he never met the right woman. Besides which, your, what, thirty-five? I've known Cactus longer than you've been _alive_, you are _not_ his child" replied Webb, with the kind of vicious smile that had put weak men on their knees years before. She didn't even flinch, just nodded slowly.

"Adopted, 1988, not common knowledge. I was sixteen. But I mean every word I say" she replied, softly.

"Good, because if he takes a bullet it'll be after I'm dead. So, what's your name anyway?" he asked.

"Anna Neagley, now" she replied, with the slightest trace of a smile. He knew what _that_ meant, Cactus had helped _her_ at some point in the past. Probably when she was sixteen...

"Yep, it is. See you've met my daughter, Brer, since you ain't dead reckon she likes you. How are you, anyway?" came Cactus's distinct, deep rumble of a voice as he stepped into the room.

Six feet tall, with thick white hair and moustache, heavily wrinkled dark skin and too-obvious bones as a result of his great age slowly melting away the muscle, Cactus was a man of ninety-two years of age with a mind so sharp that men sixty years his junior couldn't keep up. Added to the experience only living so long could grant one, he could and did often outflank competitors or wannabes by applying lessons he'd learnt over his long life they simply couldn't imagine and easily left them in the dust.

Wearing a cream shirt and black trousers, with well-polished black shoes on his feet, Cactus's only physical concession to his age was a heavy wooden walking stick with a steel tip he used as a support when necessary, rather than as a necessity. Something told Webb that the old man could still have gotten around just fine even without the cane if he'd chosen to, so he was just using it to suggest he was older and weaker than he was. Misdirection, the first trick the Forger learnt.

"I'm fine, myself. But I'm rather puzzled I've never met your daughter before, old man" replied Webb.

"Got my reasons, Brer, but right now I need her close. I hear things, you know? Anna, the case under my bed, the one I told you never to open or even touch? Go open it now, get everything inside and bring it down here" said Cactus. Anna nodded and left without a word. Webb looked at her for a moment, then back at Cactus, raising an eyebrow. He knew when the old man was clearing the decks so that they could talk privately.

"Pour an old man a shot of Bourbon and hand it to him when he sits down, Brer, then take some for yourself, why don't you?" asked Cactus, even as he walked over to one of the armchairs and sat down, slowly and carefully. Webb located the Bourbon, poured a half-glass for each of them, gave Cactus his and sat down in the other armchair.

"I need my family safe, Cactus, for good" said Webb, without preamble, determined to get straight to the point. He knew Cactus, a direct man all his life, would understand. That was why the old man's response surprised him.

"Already done, Brer Rabbit, had em' in hand for a year. Gold Standard gone-away Templates, ain't nobody on this Earth going to see through em', tech or no tech. Ain't them you should really worry about, though, its _you_" replied Cactus, taking a sip of the Bourbon and taking a moment to savour the taste.

"Cactus, what the Hell does that mean? We've been over this too many times, anyone wants me they know coming at me through my family will mean they _get_ me. I get them safe, whatever happens to me _happens_. That's just the way it _is_. After my life, I'm not going to start looking over my shoulder now. They want me dead, they'll have to work for it, whoever the Hell they are" said Webb, wondering what Cactus was talking about.

"Ain't your life their after, Brer, that's what you don't get. The Raven's back-she says Hi, by the way-sure, but it ain't _her_ you got to worry about, trust me" replied Cactus. Bourne's eyes opened so wide he thought he'd go blind at Cactus's statement, then he shook his head to clear it.

"...That, I did not need to hear from you. _Christ_, Cactus, you've been in _contact_ with that woman?! She's a fucking maniac of the highest order who'd nuke DC just to get a better tan! You'd be better off making a deal with the damn _Devil_!" exploded Webb, his voice rising to a shout.

"I know that, Brer, don't you think I don't. She's also one of my best customers, always pays her bills and is a _serious_ professional where it matters. She doesn't know I know you, she just left a message in case you made contact. I _know_ what she's done and who she is almost as well as I know _you_, Brer, okay? It's all business, do not doubt it" replied Cactus, sharply.

"Since it's you, I don't. But, well...Jesus Christ... Okay, okay, go on" said Webb, after a few seconds.

Cactus glanced upstairs, where Anna had clearly reached his room given the fact her footsteps had stopped. Then he looked back at Webb.

"You know what my girl does for the Special Operations teams, Brer?" asked Cactus, almost casually. Webb knew him better than that, though, despite Cactus's masterful poker face. The slightly "off" look in the old mans eyes was enough warning that he was building up to something.

"No. Why, should I know of her?" Webb replied, slowly and carefully.

"Cause I reckon you know what a Code 5 Asset is, Brer, I ain't going to answer that straight out. Enough said when I tell you she's been tapped on four continents, huh?" asked Cactus, a question which caused Webb to blink and temporarily loose the ability to speak.

"She's a Special Forces _Assassin_?! Bloody Hell, Cactus, what are you _into_ these days?!" Webb managed to say, after almost a minute of shocked silence.

"Survival. I'm telling you this because I need you to understand something, Brer Rabbit, something you won't want to hear but need to. My girl is hooked in with people all over the place and I got some I know who still tell me things. Reckon maybe they shouldn't, but they did. One of them's old man Conklin, you following me so far?" asked Cactus.

Webb nodded, not sure he could trust himself to speak. He hadn't even known Conklin was aware of Cactus's existence, let alone that they'd been in contact. More to the point, why _would_ a long-Retired Spook like Conklin be in contact with an aged Forger, even one of Cactus's experience and background?

Had the old Spy been up to something that, yet again, he had had to run outside of the Agency? Or had the old Spook discovered something, something so worrying that he'd left a copy of whatever it was with a man Webb knew who would prove very, very hard for _anyone_ else to find...?

"It's like this, Brer. I do not _like_ what I am hearing out there in the dark, Conklin liked it even less and those who got their ears to the ground out in the wilds have _seen_ things, too. Something _big_ is coming, big, bad and downright damn _ugly_. There are people out there playing God who like to think they know what they are doing and, Hell, they _don't_. Conklin said it was like something out of the Book of Revelations crossed with Nostradamus with a side order of Apocalypse thrown in. Said the people laying things out think that they can change the world to make it better in a way even the Nazi's didn't think of. Said the name of the problem was some old fool called _Rambaldi_. Ringing any bells yet, Brer?" asked Cactus.

"No...Alex said all that?" Webb replied, wondering just who the Hell Rambaldi was or had been. A code-name, perhaps?

"Reckon he did, sure that he said something else, too. Said it included _you_, Brer, personal as it gets. Said that name was _Medusa_" said Cactus, a word which made Webb abruptly sit up so straight so fast he almost came to his feet.

"Cactus, I think that you'd better tell me everything. From the beginning" said Webb, his voice suddenly so cool the temperature in the room seemed to have dropped ten degrees. Cactus just smiled, then spent the three quarters of an hour doing just that. Anna sat on the sofa once she returned, completely unperturbed, which left Webb in no doubt that she'd heard it all before. Afterwards, his head was left spinning in ways he'd never wanted to even consider happening again...

"This is insanity, these people are out of their minds... Can it all even _be_ stopped?" asked Webb, shaking his head slowly. He had so much he hadn't known and hadn't really wanted to to take in, so suddenly, but it changed nothing. He was still and always would be the Assassin, once he got his family safe he'd do the job and, maybe, just get to go away and die in peace after all. He wasn't the one to tell this to-and, all of a sudden, he knew Cactus knew that. Which meant he knew about the _rest_ of it...

"Reckon not, Brer, but if everyone who could doesn't even try we might as well all bend over and kiss our asses goodbye, ain't no reason to do anything else. I told you this because you still out there in the world where I ain't. That gives you a chance. But I reckon you need to go, now, so get what you need from my girl Anna and run on out of here. Get 'em safe, then worry about the rest" said Cactus, leaning back into his chair and finishing off his Bourbon.

Webb knew a dismissal when he heard it, so he rose to his feet even as Anna did. She handed him the small, elegant dark-brown suitcase without hesitation, met his eyes and nodded, a mark of respect, one professional to another. He returned the gesture, then turned to face Cactus one last time.

"One bastard to another, Cactus, it's been good knowing you" he said, holding out his free hand for cactus to shake. Cactus did, his grip still surprisingly strong and firm despite his age.

"Yeah, you're right, it's been an interesting life. Who could want for more, huh? Take care of yourself, Brer Rabbit, I won't always be here to do it for you" replied Cactus, with the slightest trace of a smile on his face.

As he left, he couldn't help but feel that what had passed between them had sounded and felt far too much like "Goodbye". Worse, given the kind of lives they both lived, one _only_ said goodbye if one was sure it would be the last time...

Y

"Go after him, Anna, keep him safe. Past time you should have stopped worrying so much about me and we both know it" said Cactus, looking meaningfully at his daughter's eyes.

"You think I'll stop worrying about you while I'm still alive? Who are you and where has my father been taken?" replied Anna, refilling Cactus's glass with a second shot of Bourbon.

"I ain't _thinking_ it, I'm _asking_ it. Hell, as your old man I'm _telling_ you it. Move on from this old man while you still got some time left to do it in. It's a big, bad fucked-up world out there and somebody got to watch the good guys backs. Can't be me no more" said Cactus, glaring at her in the way he always did when he was trying to get through to her just how serious he really was.

Unfortunately, nine times out of ten it didn't work. His girl had walls built of fire behind her eyes, a skin so thick that it could deflect artillery fire and so many shadows on her Soul that it was a wonder she still had her mind to him, sometimes. She'd told him what had made her that way, but he didn't dare think about it all too much. If he did, he knew he'd have got in touch with particular people he knew and let them refine, over weeks, their..._unique_ definition of the word "Pain" on those responsible. _All_ of them.

"Dad... If this is so important to you, I'll go. After all, we both know what's at stake. But you know they'll come if I do..." said Anna, very quietly.

"Don't you worry none about that, Anna, this old mans still got a few tricks up his sleeve. In other places, too. You watch his back, let me worry about mine" said Cactus, this time letting s real smile appear on his face.

She leant forwards and kissed him on the forehead before hugging him tightly, which he returned as best he could. Then she turned and left without another word, but he knew her better than that. After the life she'd had, she didn't have it left in her to say goodbye any longer, not even to those she loved.

Immediately after she'd packed up and left, his house phone started ringing, incessantly, until the Answering Machine-which he'd made sure was muted earlier-cut in. Answering it would have been like putting a gun to his head. Instead, he hauled himself to his feet and walked over to the TV.

The phone rang again, kept ringing, then the Answering Machine cut in again. They'd be on their way by now, he didn't have much time.

He raised his stick and drove it down hard onto the back of the television, knocking the rear cover slightly loose. He hit it again, the cover fell free, he reached behind the exposed banks of wires and electronics and grasped what he was looking for, pulled it loose as he straightened. He knew they'd have been scanning his house, but the electrical field generated by the TV would have masked the electronic signature of the device he held.

This time the phone and his mobile rang at the same time, then kept ringing until both went to Answering Machine. He imagined that he could hear them approaching now.

The black lead-lined case he was holding was nine inches long and three wide. He opened it, to reveal a small silver tube with no distinguishing marks at all. Just a simple red button at one end. His Failsafe.

They'd come for him before they'd gone after Conklin, but his services were more valuable so he'd just been warned, graphically, what would happen if he ever told anyone what he knew and suspected. He'd told them he understood, then told them to go to Hell. The man in charge had just laughed, full in his face. Warned him his little girl was just where they'd start. They knew everything there _was_ to know about him. They'd been wrong then, they were wrong now.

His phone and his Mobile rang again, kept ringing, stopped-then started again. Now he _knew_ even his fading old ears could pick up the sound of his front door being opened from the outside. The people doing it didn't care if the weak old man inside heard them, either. After all, what was he going to do about it? Too bad for them.

The device he was holding was a little something he'd cooked up after obtaining very particular material from the Black Market following the collapse of the USSR. It had cost a pretty penny, but it had been worth every bit of it. Old soldiers never expected to die in bed and, in reality, he'd always wanted to go out in a blaze of glory.

The front door crashed open, hard, as what sounded like the crack of a grenade detonation echoed. They'd be inside in seconds, they'd still be too late.

He called it his "Last Word". Main ingredient: weapons-grade Plutonium. Good thing the man he'd got to put it together was absolutely reliable and knew exactly what he was doing, wasn't as though he wanted to kill innocents with it after all.

Even as they pounded down the corridor towards him, he sighed, breathed in deep one last time, tossed back what was left of his Bourbon. Then he laughed, a final laugh of utter freedom.

He pushed the button with no regrets.

/End of Chapter 27. All Reviews welcomed/.


	28. Chapter 28

Legal disclaimers: see earlier parts.

Disclaimers: see earlier parts.

**The Last Day**

_Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, one day ago_

Nadia Santos was better than halfway convinced she was dead when she finally managed to swim her way back up through clouds of darkness to consciousness, only to find Jack Bristow sitting in a chair looking straight at her from the side of her hospital bed. Of all the things she'd ever hoped would greet her on her entry to a place of bright lights and happiness-_if_ that was where she was going-she could do a lot worse than him, easily. But...she was fairly sure that there wouldn't be gently humming electric lights in Heaven, or the faint smell of bleach...

"Welcome back. How do you feel?" asked Jack, his deep voice just the way she remembered it. No, she definitely wasn't dead. If she'd been in Heaven, he'd have given her a warm hug to make her feel safe and let her know he cared. _This_ was real life-and that would never happen.

"Like..." she managed, then had to stop and lick her lips, swallow to moisten a dry throat. "Like I've been having...a very bad week. You?" she managed, trying to block out the memories of helplessly falling out of the sky in a crashing aircraft. It wasn't easy, but she had to. There was a time and a place to deal with terrors like that-and that wasn't now.

For a moment she actually thought he smiled, only for his face to reset into the usual stone mask so fast that she actually had to blink to tell whether or not she'd seen anything. Still, even if he'd only opened up to her that much it was a start.

"I know exactly what you mean, but we need to move on. You have numerous laceration injuries, small cuts and severe bruising. You suffered a severe Concussion in the plane crash, but the Doctor tells me that since you've regained consciousness so quickly you shouldn't need to worry about that in the long term. You are also suffering from Whiplash as a result of the crash and, most importantly, your injuries, the loss of blood and traumatic shock of the events caused you to suffer a severe heart attack. You had to be resuscitated, before you ask" said Jack, cataloguing the abuse her body had suffered as though he was talking about someone who wasn't in the room or important to him.

"Thank you for that summation of all the ways I could have died, Jack. I take it I'm not crippled, at least?" she asked, hopefully.

"No. But you had to have extensive stitching of your wounds to close them all completely. The Doctor says that you will require plastic surgery where the tree branch nearly tore your leg off to remove what will otherwise be a considerable scar. He has prescribed a minimum of a weeks bed rest, starting now" replied Jack.

His expression suggested that he didn't care either way, but she knew him better than that after six months. He was a past master of keeping his thoughts to himself and cutting his feelings completely out of the equation, but that didn't mean he didn't care. It just meant he wouldn't risk getting hurt deep down where he lived, not ever again. That, given her total lack of family or trust in anyone around her both before and after she'd been recruited by Argentinean Intelligence for too many good reasons, she could understand.

She'd always trusted Sydney, for some reason, from their first meeting in Chechnya. She knew she could trust sweet Eric Weiss, while Marshall got starry-eyed around "his" Sydney's sister and would have hacked Langley if she'd asked him the right way. Vaughn was and always would be Sydney's man, but he was a solid professional and she knew he was trustworthy. She trusted Jack, but matters were always... _complicated_, where he was concerned. Sometimes she even trusted her father, a man who'd tortured his own long-lost child, though, so what did that say about her?

"I see. I take it that travelling back to LA to convalesce there is out of the question?" she asked.

This time, she knew she wasn't imagining it. He smiled.

"I didn't say that" he replied, carefully. "In fact, I have some suggestions to make..."

_Abandoned industrial complex 50 miles east of LA_

When Monica Messolina told her where they were going to be driving to, Sydney guessed that it would be a secure location. She wasn't sure who else would be there, what they would be doing there or why they would be there. She was of the opinion that she was being almost suicidally stupid, on purpose, by going with a woman she barely knew-as best she could tell, at the moment-to an unknown location without backup on hand, any bugs and, most important of all, with no one she trusted any the wiser as to where she was. But, she _had_ to do it. What was on offer was worth the risk, _if_ the information was good...

The abandoned warehouse was thirty feet high and twenty across, with intact glass in every high window, a side door for personnel and two main doors that could be rolled open and shut for vehicles at the front. Round-roofed, the walls were grey stone while the roof was steel. The structure was big enough to conceal a number of people and likely did, while being easily large enough to conceal weapons, explosives and even vehicles as well if necessary.

However, she couldn't pick out even traces of any tracks leading to and from the warehouse despite the dusty old tarmac road that was the only access and exit point. She couldn't see any guards, nor any sign of sensors monitoring the area and the approach. Either the people she'd come to see were so good at what they did that they had no reason to worry about security, they were too arrogant to care, or they had no _reason_ to care. She wasn't sure which answer would be the worst.

She distantly noticed that it was starting to rain, raindrops tapping on her face and running into her hair. The wind was getting up, too. Her loose hair was being shifted by a now gusting wind as it strengthened around her. Dark clouds which had been threatening overhead since the late afternoon were starting to do far more than just look threatening now, she could tell that rain was going to come slashing down any second. Probably thunder and lightning, too. It seemed oddly appropriate, in fact.

The side door swung open as they approached, Monica parking the car by it. As they stepped out into the wild, Sydney remembering to shut the car window before she did, a familiar face appeared. Familiar in a sense, at least.

_**Cole**_.

He'd saved her life, now he was evidently part of an effort to save her mind-_if _that was the true purpose here. She wondered who else she was going to see she'd know.

Inside, a block of tables and chairs had been created to one end of an apparent engineering section. Two joined table and five chairs had been set up. Seated in one of the chairs already was-

She stopped so sharply she could have walked into a wall with less effect. Here eyes widened even as her jaw threatened to simply become unhinged as it dropped.

"_**ANNA?!**_" she exploded, almost spitting out the dark woman's name. _That_ bitch was _here_?! This was...

"Hello again, Sydney" said Anna, her strong, musical voice floating out to easily cross the difference between them. "Welcome to your past..."

_Washington, DC_

Edward Norton McAllister, who had served his Government with distinction for most of the past fifty years, had just left his most recent briefing session with the President. He was inside an armoured Limo, surrounded by Secret Service guards in the middle of a three-car convoy with two motorcycle Outriders front and back. He'd killed with his bare hands in the line of duty, nearly _been_ killed and run so many Black Books Ops that would never appear in the history books that nobody questioned his nerve or his self-control and skills under pressure any longer.

An old man on the very edge of Retirement, there was very little left that scared him. People didn't, no matter how monstrous or terrible, he'd seen the worst and lived to tell the tale with his sanity intact. Weapons didn't, he'd lost any fear of violent death almost twenty-five years before when he'd been shot for the first time and come so close to death that he'd tasted it. After that, he knew that he could die at any time-and that it was just a things that happened to everyone, one way or another, in the end.

But Jason Bourne, the Assassin, did. He did, because McAllister had been a driving force behind the resurrection of Project Treadstone in the first place and he'd seen first-hand just what this "new" Bourne could and would do. On top of which, old man Conklin had been so worried about the developing situation with Bourne clearly targeting former or current Treadstone staff and even Agents that he had practically Ordered McAllister to get his head down behind the parapet and stay there until he died of old age or Bourne was dead, whatever came first.

That wasn't how McAllister worked, though, if there was a battle to be fought he didn't duck and run, he went to find the enemy and slaughtered them or died trying-even asleep in their foxholes if it came to it. Of course, at seventy-four years of age he was hardly up to taking matters into his own hands physically if he had to, not any longer.

His hair was long gone, the once dark red wave lost years earlier. Dark brown eyes were still as sharp as ever, so was his mind, but his muscles were thin threads now and liver spots atop his head added to so many wrinkles his body resembled a rough map made him look even older than he was. His always-sharp business suit and perfectly folded tie were, as ever, in place. The silver watch which had kept perfect time for twenty years still ran flawlessly on his wrist.

He smiled briefly at a sudden thought which crossed his mind, a youthful saying one of the younger Cabinet members had quoted in a pathetic attempt to lighten the mood when they'd been discussing the situation in Afghanistan and Iraq in the War Room. "Live fast, die young, leave a beautiful corpse" he'd said...

When the bomb hidden under a sewer plate in the middle of the road went off and tore his limo in half, shredding his body into small pieces in the process, McAllister was still smiling at the poor joke. When the rescue teams later found his still-intact head, they'd never know what could have been making him smile the moment he died.

/End of Chapter 28. All Reviews welcomed/.


	29. Chapter 29

Legal disclaimers: see earlier parts.

Disclaimers: see earlier parts.

**The Last Day**

_Italy, 2003_

As Anna Espinosa looked through the grating set into the sealed steel door and stared at the half-starved wreck that had once been her nemesis, Sydney Bristow, once of SD-6 and more recently the CIA, she couldn't help feeling that something was just..._missing_. Seeing her old sparring partner broken and lost, everyone and everything she loved taken from her, left to rot-or as good as-on a concrete floor in a cell with no windows? Once, that could and would have been everything she might have wished for.

Now, though, seeing the fact of the matter? Seeing the same strong, independent, brilliant woman she had so much admired so beaten and broken down? Her spirit so crushed? It occurred to Anna that she'd never really wanted to see Sydney broken down and left to rot like this, _never_ like this. That was what was missing, the feeling of vindication and victory, the proof undeniable that _she_, Anna Espinosa, was the better Agent, the stronger woman, the victor in their years-long contest of skills, wills and strength.

She'd wanted to look Sydney in the eye and know she'd won, cup that delicious face in her hands and drink in those full lips, taste Sydney and know that she had finally proved it all against the other woman. When she'd finally won against Sydney Bristow, she'd always intended to prove it by _owning_ the younger woman when they were through at last. By breaking her to heel and letting her know, once and for all, who was the victor.

This, though, this...? All this was about was pain. Anna had known more pain than she'd ever wanted to, or believed she deserved to, over her thirty-three years of life. She had the scars, inside and out, to prove it-and she knew, in the end, that was all they were, scars. It hurt at the time, but in the end it made you stronger, if you survived.

If she knew Sydney Bristow at all, which she did, the younger woman could and would withstand any amount of pain and torture, even interrogation, just for the chance to pay it all back to those against her in the end. Twice as hard, if possible. She'd learnt _that_ lesson when they'd worked together, just that once, in Berlin, at the same time she'd discovered just what Sydney Bristow tasted like: Strawberries with a hint of mint, added to a scent of Jasmine, an intoxicating package.

For some reason, Anna had expected the heavy stink of cheeseburgers and a whiff of coke, but Sydney Bristow was about as close to being the average American as Anna was the average Cuban-American, so she shouldn't have been surprised. Of course, every surprise where Sydney Bristow was concerned was a _good_ surprise...

She shut the grating and looked around at the middle-aged man who was standing next to her, completely ignoring the young guard carrying a P-80 behind her. Although she couldn't help but be glad that they were taking security seriously where someone as intelligent and resourceful as Sydney Bristow was concerned.

The man was five and a half feet tall, built like a barrel despite his lack of evident muscle and whip-quick. His pale skin was smooth, his head bald, his dark brown eyes so sharp that it was hard, even for her, to look him in the eye even with his thin, black-rimmed glasses in the way. Perfectly shined black shoes shone on his feet and he wore a black suit, tie and white shirt as though he was coming from or going to a Funeral.

His face was so smooth that, added to the lack of lines on his face and hands, telling his actual age was genuinely difficult. Her best guess placed him somewhere between forty and sixty, but she wouldn't have been able to narrow it down for good money. Added to the sharp, precise way he spoke and his oddly accented voice, she couldn't even pin down what part of the world he came from.

She barely knew anything at all about the man, she'd only _met_ the man a little over six hours ago, but he had accomplished a feat few people had managed in her lifetime: he had left her genuinely uneasy in his presence, in a way that had nothing to do with either physical prowess or choice of profession. His name, as far as everyone she knew had been able to determine, was Stark, no surname. He had no past, no known base of operations, no friends or family. He was just a name and a face, an individual who was available for hire by people with sufficient money and resources to get his attention.

It now seemed that he had gone into business for himself, since rumours had suggested for some time he'd become involved in a powerful working of some kind. Now she stood next to him and took in, yet again, the fact that he had created the new underworld powerhouse and structure, the Covenant. A newly formed force that had, barely formed, succeeded in abducting and successfully faking the death of the legendary Sydney Bristow, now their prisoner to do with as they pleased...

"Alright, you've made your point and I accept that you clearly _can_ do as you say you can. But, I still state that you underestimate that woman. She'll live just to spite you if you try to kill her, survive and withstand every torture just to prove that she can and live to come back and get you no matter what you do to her. I've seen it happen with my own eyes. So, just why should I even consider taking your offer of a job as her Handler when I know you'll never break her? Give me _one_ good reason" said Anna, facing Stark full on.

"Because Sydney Bristow will remain in that room until she is dead. The woman who will walk out of that door will be someone else. Oleg, who I know you are aware of the work of, will make sure of that. You, as one who knows her very well indeed, will be here to make sure of this. Also, you may do as you like with her, without interfering with our Objectives, once the Reprogramming is complete. I presume that you have no objections?" replied Stark, his words short and clipped.

"None. As long as it takes?" replied Anna, shooting a glance back at the door. She allowed a slight smile to cross her face at the thought, the possibilities.

"Do not doubt it. We will do what it takes, for as long as it takes" replied Stark, his dark eyes barely visible in the dim electronic lights of the corridor outside of Sydney's cell...

_Abandoned industrial complex 50 miles east of LA, 2007, one day ago_

"Anna, I knew you had a superiority complex, but I should reach across this table and kill you with my bare hands for what you just told me. You _knew_ what was happening to me a _month_ after it started and you. Just. _**Watched**_?! You're not even a human being, you're a mockery someone paid money for! _I_ would have gotten _you_ out of there and we both know it!" snarled Sydney, her hands clenched into fists with such force that her entire upper body was visibly shaking with fury.

"Oh, please, even if I _had_ tried to do anything to help you they would have either shot me in the back of the head or done to me what they were doing to you. You _know_ that. Besides, the idea of having you taking Orders from me was...very appealing. What can I say? I am a Mercenary and I know a superior Agent when I see one. With you by my side, even if you didn't know who you really were...? Sydney, just _think_ about what we could accomplish working together...?" replied Anna, smirking even as she leaned back on her chair-

Cole, without the slightest change of expression or hint in body language, kicked Anna's chair out from under her from where he sat to her right. Anna didn't even have time to brace herself for impact before she connected with the concrete floor with a very solid thud that blasted the air from her lungs and dragged a startled, pain-filled yelp from her mouth.

"Thank you, Cole" Sydney said, not even sure why she was saying it since she didn't know the man-or at least, she didn't _remember_ him, _yet_. Oddly, despite that, the nod he aimed her way satisfied her as much as words would have, if not more.

Monica-_Talia_-had explained that he didn't talk, but she'd still expected to feel slightly uncomfortable around the man until she got used to the fact. Instead, his very lack of verbal communication and use of body language to express what he was thinking had seemed as natural as breathing to her. She had no trouble interpreting what he was "saying", either. It was like falling back into remembered habits that she just hadn't used for a while?

_Rome, Italy, 2004_

Monica Messolina, sometimes known as Talia, knew the woman she was about to meet for the "first" time better than, she suspected, she would ever be able to reveal. For one thing, while they hadn't spoken before, they had actually met for the first time six months previously, over a Mars bar of all things. Second, the young woman sitting at the coffee shop table sipping at a Cappuccino while completing the Crossword in a newspaper had been in a place mere verbal description could not adequately convey the horror of.

The best she could come up with was Hell with none of the charm, run by deranged lunatics who played with people's minds using surgical tools and a smile. The people who ran the place didn't care about humanity at all, only about their results-and they would destroy every part of a human being they had to for the right outcome. Using drugs. Using torture. Using every form of abuse.

Talia was more who and what she was than Monica Messolina, the name she had been born with but rarely truly used any longer-thanks to Jason Bourne-and the woman who had formed out of _who_ she had been and _what_ she had been programmed to be was one of the most ruthlessly efficient killers seen since World War II. That said, though, she was still a human being and, more importantly, there were still lines she would not cross. Torture she could live with, but what she'd witnessed being done to Sydney Bristow? That was something else...

It didn't matter now, though. If the Covenant ever worked out what she was really up to they'd send Assassins to kill her and slaughter everyone she cared about, so she needed to settle matters _quietly_. Once her Plan was in place, she could set matters in progress behind the backs of the "Watchers" who thought they were no more than data streams nobody could find.

She walked over to the table, sat down and drew over a waiter with a nod-a beautiful woman tended not to need more with men. When she asked for a Cappuccino and a slice of shortbread with Belgian chocolate, Sydney-or Julia Thorne, the name she was going by now, for the moment at least-glanced at her over the paper, then settled back to wait until there was no-one in sight or likely to hear anything they said.

"The night was long, I am lost" Talia said, conversationally. If Sydney didn't give the correct response to a challenge at any time, Stark had standing Orders in place that she be executed without hesitation. Doubtless, he thought that only upper echelons of the Covenant leadership knew the truth about the young woman. But, Stark always had had an over inflated opinion of his skills for all his actual, considerable, talents.

"Yet here I am, not yet a Ghost" replied Sydney-Julia, Talia reminded herself again, she'd have to watch that-which was the correct response. Well, there was nothing wrong with her memory at least.

"So I come to you, to seek the truth" said Talia, yet again reminding herself that all of this served a purpose. That certain individuals continued to believe her own Programming was intact was an important thing to her. For now, at least.

"Seek the truth, the Styx Sisters. _Ave_. I presume you are the Cross I have to bear?" replied Sydney, completing the Recognition Passage. She looked strong, healthy, bright and alive-and sane, most important of all, Talia knew. Even more impressive, after _everything_, there wasn't even a trace on her face or flicker of her eyes to imply that anything was amiss.

The young woman was built of something more solid than granite and was sharper than a tempered steel blade to still be standing, physically and mentally, after nine months of..._that_. Talia wasn't sure _she_ could have withstood such overwhelming pain and pressure so casually and critically applied, with no hint of human concern to grant even a trace of relief. Cole wouldn't even have blinked, of course, for the whole nine months.

Kate? Kate was...unique. Her reaction to someone even _attempting_ to "change" her would have gone down in history as the Wrath of God when they finally realised just what they had their hands on-and the consequences of trying to manipulate it. _It_, not her, she understood that much about Kate, knew that the younger woman wasn't quite dead _or_ alive, not after what had happened to her in Bosnia. She..._existed_ was the best description Talia could manage.

"Yes, I am. But I wouldn't think of me as a Cross to bear, better as an edge that will carve you into a new, better shape that will allow you to survive in this world. Blood will flow, Julia" said Talia, raising her cup of Cappuccino to her lips and taking a sip. Steaming hot, just the way she liked it.

"I didn't tell you my name" replied Julia, her eyes cold, her smile entirely artificial. Even as she spoke, though, she raised her own cup to her lips and took a sip of her drink.

"No" replied Talia, leaving Sydney's interpretation of what that meant to her. To Sydney's credit, after a moment, she simply nodded in recognition.

_Abandoned industrial complex 50 miles east of LA, 2007, one day ago_

"_You_ knew that... Oh, for... Did everyone I worked with except for Simon Walker and his men know I was Undercover while I was away?!" Sydney almost snapped.

"All of the Styx Sisters did, Cole did, Artemisia Hades did, Toni Cummings did-" Talia replied. Only she was abruptly cut off by Sydney literally exploding to her feet at the last name.

"Oh, that BITCH-! I've met her _since_ I came back, she didn't even _suggest_ that she knew who I was! AGH! How blind _am_ I?!" Sydney snarled, kicking her chair away and raking her hands through her hair as though she was trying to tear tufts out. She began walking around and around on the spot, shaking her head.

"Actually, she _did_. Don't you remember that when you tracked her down as a possible source for Sloane's Bunker she came out and asked if you wanted something special built less than five minutes after meeting you? Didn't that seem just a _little_ strange to you, even with diamonds on the table? That sort of response means _trust_, Sydney, she'd been out of the loop since Egypt and didn't know about your memory wipe. She thought she was dealing with Julia Thorne, you threw her for a real loop when you pulled out your CIA ID I do not doubt" said Talia, with a slight chuckle.

"Also, didn't you wonder why she saw you so quickly? She's a Majority Supplier, Sydney, even with a legitimate business in front of her. People wait _months_ to see people like her, she had you walked in like a lover she was expecting, even with an escort, practically the moment she saw you. If you want to blame yourself for being blind to what is around you, start with that" said Talia, tapping the table twice with her fingernail to make sure Sydney was listening to her.

Sydney stopped moving, righted her chair and slumped back down into it with a sigh. "Fine, fine, I just...it's been eighteen months, I thought that I was dealing with all of this. Now I'm finding out I might just not even know who I _am_ anymore. I used to see through people and at least be able to guess what was behind them and what they weren't saying. Now, though? I'm starting to wonder if I can even see the wood for the trees..." muttered Sydney, resting her head on her hands as her elbows braced against the tabletop.

"Thinking like that is a short route to paranoia, that leads to dementia and that leads to insanity. If you want to drive yourself mad over "What-Ifs" do it on your own time. Or, even better, don't. Your not the woman you were before you were taken away, but that doesn't make you a failure, a monster or worthless, it just makes you _different_. Accept it and move on, change is part of the human condition. Were here to help, if you didn't trust me with that we wouldn't be here, let alone talking to one another" said Talia, flexing her arms above her head.

"Well, maybe... Hold on, that mission was a CIA Covert Operation level 5 Classified. How the Hell do you even _know_ about it, let alone the details?" asked Sydney, sharply.

"I have access to a higher authority, lets stop there. Besides, let's address another question if you're so keen. China, the Embassy mission where Marshal's hacks failed and Security came for you. You defeated two guards using a pair of Sai's and a masterful display of Martial Arts, not just one Art, in fact, I believe. We all know you have considerable prowess in unarmed combat, proved many times over the last thirteen years, but your chosen discipline is Krav Maga with Thai Kick-Boxing and Ninjitsu as supplements" said Talia, before pausing to look Sydney straight in the eyes.

"I've seen your records and training briefs, official and unofficial. You _never_ learnt to use Sai's as a weapon, yet in the Embassy you could have killed two men without letting them near you using those same weapons if you'd been of a mind to. But, your conscience got in the way. Have you ever even _considered_ how odd that was? That _is_?" asked Talia.

Sydney met Talia's eyes for a long moment, then looked away, her loose hair falling across her face. Talia could still hear her almost-whispered answer, though. "No...I just, thought I'd picked it up from watching someone fight with them before..." Sydney muttered.

"Please. _I_ taught you to fight with those weapons, Sydney, as well as others. You can't rely on guns and plastic sticks with steel parts, you need to be able to take hold of a stone on the road and kill with it if you have to. You had developed quite an arsenal, before you left" Talia said, with a sigh that was almost wistful.

"...Do I want to hear this part?" asked Sydney, very nearly covering her face with her hands with a deep-seated groan. To her credit, though, she didn't just disappear behind her hands, as she could have done.

"You tell _me_" said Talia, softly, making sure she was looking Sydney in the eyes as she spoke. It was the look in her eyes that told her Sydney's answer, however reluctantly.

_North Africa, 2004_

The fighting circle was no more than a literal circle drawn in the sand, created with a stick dragged through the sand held down deep to make sure then markings were evident. It was marked at the four points of the compass with dry wooden stakes driven deep to prevent shifting, marking thirty feet across from stake to stake, with the understanding that being driven beyond the marked points was a "Death" result.

The small desert area was deserted, 30 miles from anywhere with other human beings in it, off of every known route, a place where even planes would not casually pass over. It was as isolated and alone, surrounded by hulking dunes which shifted with the wind, as it was possible to get on a planet where a satellite could read the newspaper over your shoulder and people a mile away could shoot you in the head with a gun that you would never hear fire as the echo reached you after the bullet.

More to the point, if anyone was left out in the wilds in this place, as all there well knew, they would never be found, ever. Bleached and wind-scarred bones would never a victim make, at worst. Talia knew that this was the case because she'd made use of the sands before now, the ocean was overrated as a place to hide everything in her opinion.

The pure blue skies almost shimmered in the pressing early morning heat even as the sun slowly rose into the sky, the last of the night's chill quickly dissipating. She could feel the sand warming up with the soles and toes of her bare feet as she flexed them in the golden sands underfoot, even as she finished running through her early morning warm up routine.

Julia, she noticed, making sure to keep her smile hidden, had yet again ended up with an astonished look on her face after seeing the routines she, Talia, carried out every morning without fail. Julia was still amazed, clearly, that Talia didn't cripple herself given the efforts and contortions she went through. Offers to teach Julia the same training regime had at first met with a look of sheer panic, but now she was showing interest. Maybe the demonstration today would settle matters?

She and Julia were wearing skin tight black leggings that extended from the hips to just above the knee, while a vest top of the same colour covered shoulders, collarbone and on down to mid-chest. They'd both tied their long hair back into tight bound-up ponytails at the base of their skull-and they both held a pair of Sais, long, thin blades of seemingly delicate razor steel that would part silk in mid-air and open human skin and flesh with less effort than it took to slice an apple.

Talia never went for less than supreme quality and everyone who dealt with her professionally knew it-or didn't survive it. She had loaned Julia a set from her own, extensive, weapon collection because she knew real skill when she saw it-and wanted to see what the young woman could do when let off the leash. Today, she was going to find out.

Off to her right Kate stood, in a pale white shirt, brown shorts which exposed surprisingly pale legs and a broad brown sunhat, black combat boots on her feet, that strange necklace which hurt the eye around her neck. Julia's first meeting with _her_ had almost been worrying, Talia wasn't sure she'd ever forget it, but matters seemed to have levelled off since.

Cole stood off to Julia's right, wearing black Dojo leggings and nothing else, his chest, back and arms all covered in small white scars which sometimes criss-crossed over heavy muscle so defined that it looked almost as though he'd been built rather than born. He was strikingly handsome, as ever, but he looked as though he'd gone to Hell itself if one looked too hard. She'd seen him naked, what his completely revealed body revealed, the story it told...

She was sometimes glad he never spoke, even though she knew there was nothing wrong with his vocal cords. To leave him looking the way he did, the way he was? There were some questions nobody sane should ever know the answers to. She had no doubt that if he ever told her the truth, she'd never feel safe again.

The first meeting between him and Julia had occurred right in front of her five minutes ago. Julia had simply walked up to him, shaken his hand and not said a word. He'd returned the favour and that had been that. She suspected Cole liked her for that, people who asked him questions when he couldn't answer them tended to loose body parts. He had his own ways of saying enough, or simply "No", very simply put.

Beyond Kate was the land cruiser that Talia and Sydney had used to reach the area, parked near the one Kate and Cole had used. Both were packed with supplies, food, water, medical gear for one kind of emergency, weapons for another kind. Even tents had been included, in case. Anna, without her knowledge, had been left behind in Berlin. None of them had wanted her present for this.

"So, are we going to first blood or incapacitated?" asked Julia, with a smirk on her face. She was looking forwards to this, Talia knew, crazy woman.

"First blood in the sand, no holds barred or strikes disallowed" Talia replied, shifting to a ready stance. She was ready-

Julia came at her like a bullet from a gun, Sai's held out and forwards like spear points at the end of her arms. Talia ducked and rolled a sharp right, came back to her feet facing Julia even as the other woman smoothly rolled on hitting the ground and came back upright herself. Her left-hand Sai stabbed out at Julia's face while her right hand Sai arced outwards in a disembowelling slash. Julia caught the stab with crossed blades and leapt backwards to avoid the slash. Both women backed off and circled, their first clash inconclusive.

Talia snapped a sharp kick at Julia's face, then followed through with arc strikes at both upper arms as Julia moved to block. Fast and skilful as Julia was, she simply wasn't on Talia's level in combat and her response to the attack proved it.

Julia tried to duck and parry at the same time while trying to back roll clear out of trouble, but failed. The kick connected with the left side of Julia's face with such force as the woman responded too slowly to the combined assault that Talia felt bone creak under the impact as her toes barely failed to take Julia's left eye. Staggered, her parry failed and both Sai blades drew thin lines of blood across her upper arms, which could have crippled her if Talia had simply applied a little more pressure by tearing through the large muscles that moved the arms.

The blades went on to slash a thin line of blood as they sliced through skin just over Julia's ribs-and through the lowest part of her top, which abruptly gaped to reveal more of Julia's breasts than the younger woman had ever intended, tanned, smooth skin leading out into full curves. If the sight hadn't been speckled with Julia's own blood, Talia would have made sure to do more than simply sneak a good look as Julia's balance failed and the stunned woman collapsed in an undignified heap.

Julia was silent for a moment, then coughed, sat up and coughed again, glancing at the blood running down her arms and chest to the ground. Then she simply laughed, full-throated and good-humoured. "Guess this means I've still got a way to go, then" she said, with a chuckle.

Talia transferred both her Sai's to one hand and held out the other to draw to help draw Julia to her feet, an offer which was gratefully accepted. As ever, Julia seemed surprised by the simple physical strength that Talia possessed. Of course, it was no exaggeration to state that she, Talia, was stronger than most men her size.

"You're getting better. Just remember, Rome wasn't built in a day" replied Talia, allowing a slight but real smile to briefly grace her face...

_Abandoned industrial complex 50 miles east of LA, 2007, one day ago_

"Ha, I knew it, I _knew_ it! You could not keep either your hands _or_ your eyes off of her from the moment you saw her. You always wanted to, as the American's say, fuck her brains out! "Master" Assassin, "Professional", HA! You cannot control your own urges, woman!" laughed Anna Espinosa, her voice a vicious sneer.

She'd righted her chair and sat down at the table again while Talia had been talking. Sydney was looking into Talia's eyes when Anna spoke and, for a moment that seemed like an Eternity, was very tempted to grab a chair and beat Anna to death with it before Talia could get her hands on the woman. The look in Talia's dark eyes at Anna's words...

There were no words in her vocabulary dark or strong enough to make even a real attempt at describing what she glimpsed in the older woman's eyes. It would have been like trying to define good and evil to Stone-Age humanity using only gestures. Not only was it so far beyond their understanding that it was akin to trying to explain God to people who were incapable of understanding where fire came from, it was better to state that the words needed to even adequately suggest what she'd seen-or was it witnessed?-had never been part of any language for a reason.

There were some things that the human mind did not absorb without fragmenting like a shattered and incinerated human body caught in the dead centre of a nuclear blast. Things no one was ever meant to see or hear, acts of true evil, abominations which shredded the Soul. It was best described as shaking hands with Death to ever even know of such things-and she'd seen worse than all of that behind dark eyes.

If, after everything she'd seen and done, she'd still believed in any form of God? She'd have knelt down and started Praying then and there. She didn't, so instead she momentarily closed her eyes and thought of her fathers stern, hard face, his cold eyes. He'd faced down, fought against and killed or witnessed every kind of evil there was in thirty-six years with the CIA, ten of them with that double-dealing, backstabbing, betraying, lying bitch of a mother of hers-and he, despite being hurt terribly, was still on his feet.

If he could survive it all, sane and relatively intact? So could _she_. All the same, she made a mental note to ask him about horrors like this when he came back. After all, she had no doubt that she'd just _know_ if he was dead. He was the only family, apart from Nadia, she'd ever really known and, sad but true, she still barely knew her own sister. That would change, with time, but Jack Bristow would always be her father. He'd always come for her, just like she'd always be there for him.

Talia looked around at Anna and they locked eyes, Talia not saying a word. She didn't need to. After less than ten seconds, it was very evident that Anna knew that she had crossed _far_ over the line and would have bolted for the door if she'd thought it would do any good, or drawn a gun and started shooting. That she didn't said everything about Talia, she knew if the other woman wanted to kill her there would be nothing at all she could do about it.

"Anna, if you have any other opinions, bite down on your tongue until you taste blood, scream in agony and _then_ consider just what I'll do to you if you ever speak about my private life that way again. Understand that if you do not follow my Order, I will pluck out your left eye and force you to eat it. Understand that if you cannot keep your mouth shut, you will wake up alone and naked one day with no memory or who and what you are or were and will sell your body to survive for the rest of your life. Grasp the fact that I can break every bone in your body twice, skin you, cut off your arms and legs and feed them to wild dogs while you watch before pulling out your guts and setting them on fire while leaving the dogs to eat you alive while keeping you completely conscious the whole time. Am I clear?" asked Talia, her voice a seductive purr, yet so cold Sydney almost literally felt the temperature of the room drop ten degrees.

It was hard to tell with Anna's dark skin, but Sydney was sure that the older woman had gone as pale as she was able. Anna's eyes had opened so wide they looked like saucers and Sydney wasn't even sure that she was breathing. She was clearly barely even able to manage the slight nod that Talia evidently accepted as an understanding of terms.

"Good. Now, Egypt" Talia began. Cole smirked at that...

_LA County Morgue_

Henry Yeager had worked, one way or another, in Morgues and around dead bodies his whole life. So much so, that was just who he was now.

Since his mother had died in front of him in a car crash when he was five and he'd been stuck, trapped between crushed seats, staring at his parents ragged remains for half an hour. Since he was eleven, when he'd heard an odd sound in the bathroom one day, gone to see what it was and found his father missing half of his head, the shotgun still in his mouth. Since he was eighteen, when he'd gone to University and learnt all about the way the human body worked by studying pictures of dead ones, as well as, once, an actual dead body carved opened liked a piece of carved meat.

He'd trained to be a Surgeon, but for no reason that anyone could have guessed at the time. He'd had a remarkable gift, all of his tutors had said, a true skill for understanding how the human body was damaged and could be repaired. He was so able, people had said he could and did see right through the skin down into the damage and took pictures with his eyes that were better than X-Rays so he never, ever missed even an odd mark.

None of them had ever understood that he had developed his gift to such an extent out of respect for the dead, not the living. No one _could_ understand the fact that the dead were just as important as the living, truly-except him. Everyone said that the body was nothing more than a decaying mass of meat, muscle and bone from the moment you died, but that was only _part_ of the story. The Egyptians had understood, in ancient times, going to great lengths to preserve their mortal remains.

What came after was none of his concern, but the start of that Journey was. His duty was to make sure that all who passed through the Mortuary doors moved on to where they went next intact, well dressed, clean and ready. He took great pride in the fact that he had never failed even a single individual-and _that_ was what was making him angry now.

At six feet six, with thinning, spiky white hair, wild blue eyes and the kind of long-limbed thin build that reminded people of particularly unpleasant insects, even at sixty-six, having spent forty-two years working at his chosen profession, he could stare down or simply overawe most people he would ever meet. In his immaculately fitted black suit and tie, with white shirt and shoes, people often left his presence believing that they had just met Death itself.

Sometimes, he suspected that maybe that was closer to the truth than he wanted to consider-after all, he wasn't getting any younger and, a fact, he'd been almost intimately acquainted with death since he was a child. He, of all people, knew that one only spent so much time around the dead without taking in a part of that same emptiness yourself-and he was soaked in it, stank of worse.

_But_, none of that had stopped the FBI SWAT team which had very near literally kicked down the front doors in the middle of the night, stormed the building as though they were expecting him to be concealing terrorists armed with nuclear weapons and held him at gunpoint with two submachine guns rammed in his face while a very thorough-and, thankfully, professional-Agent searched every nook and cranny of his body. Once the building and he himself had been cleared, they'd reversed a van to the front door while ignoring his protests and rolled a body contained with a dark green Military Body bag onto a stretcher and taken the body to storage without even so much as a "By your leave".

Only _after_ all of that had he been shown FBI ID, been told that the operation in question was part of a matter which concerned National Security and been told, politely but in such a way that it clearly wasn't a suggestion, to sit down, shut up and get some paperwork done. He'd gone to sit in his office and doodle, since his paperwork was, of course, as always, completely up to date, his mood foul and his temper barely leashed.

Within the hour, even as he'd taken in the two Agents guarding the main door with MP-5's and two more who had slipped inside the storage room, apparently unarmed but almost certainly packing pistols, he'd nearly phoned his Lawyer four times. He hadn't, for the simple reason he was sure the FBI would make sure the call never got through and he suspected that he was being fed just enough rope to hang himself with if he turned out to be unable to follow basic instructions from the FBI.

After all, since 9/11 the words "National Security" had come to represent the right for Security and Intelligence Services to go in swinging and ask questions after the threat was dealt with, by whatever means necessary. He had been as sickened as everyone else and more than most at the sight of the Twin Towers going down, with thousands of people going down to horrific deaths with them. He still had trouble believing that the Pentagon had been another target, a strike against the very forces the USA relied on to protect them against precisely what had happened.

He was behind the War on Terror to the point he'd have volunteered his own services if he could have done any good-but having the soldiers who fought that War effectively turned on him left a foul taste in his mouth. He did his job, they did theirs. They had _no_ reason to bust in here and run roughshod over him as though he didn't matter and wouldn't understand, couldn't have helped, but they had. That, he wasn't going to forget, or quickly forgive.

Apart from the dim lights by the front door and the storage room, the aged white stone morgue building was dark. The only exception that actually proved habitation was his own office light, since even in the near-total darkness the strong light he sometimes used at night cast a hint of his shadow out into the corridor. His office was always neat, with papers carefully filed, documents secured and his old typewriter locked up securely, the only other object of interest in the room being the cracked and old, grey plastic phone.

His sturdy old wood desk would last decades yet, unless some youthful fool decided to do something as foolish as get up and dance on it. His solid old chair, of the same wood and design as the table, was padded by cushions but otherwise lacked ornamentation. He didn't need them, he was too old to pretend that creature comforts were really important to him any longer, especially since they never had been to begin with...

...Had he heard something...? Something wasn't _right_. _Nothing_ made what even his old ears tentatively identified as a clang of flesh on steel without deliberate intent. He could tell that the two FBI Agents by the door hadn't heard anything because they hadn't responded, but he could tell, also, that the noise had come from the direction of the storage area regardless. There was no good reason for that sort of sound to be made when the two Agents were alone with the dead, unless...

He swore, rising to his feet. If it was _that_, he'd have their hides and then their balls, guns or no guns, if he had to do the deed with his bare hands. Such things were almost beyond his ability to even _consider_...

...He had _definitely_ heard that. A noise hard to describe, an almost breathless gurgle, followed by a heavy thud. The two FBI Agents by the door still hadn't heard anything, or they'd have been running to investigate by now. He slipped his old gun safe key from the chain he kept all of his keys on around his neck, walked out of his office and calmly walked over to what seemed no more than a battered old money safe which had seen its best days fifty years ago given its battered state.

He opened it, pulled out his old Hunting Rifle, checked and loaded it before ramming a shell home. That, the two FBI Agents by the door _did_ hear.

"_Hey_!" one of them shouted, presumerably the smart one, at the sight of the harmless old man they'd believed their guns and words had cowed pulling out a rifle and run a professional check on it. He'd been shooting for whole decades before either of the young men had even been born, having started at the age of eight with his father, a Veteran of the Second World War and a man who had never shot to wound.

Charles Yeager had been a hard man in a hard world, but it hadn't been what broke him in the end. No, his Wife's horrific, untimely end had done that. Her death had undone the savage, merciless killer his father had been before he'd met her, destroyed the tired Soul who had just been beginning to come back to himself years after the worst War in human history had nearly destroyed him.

Charles Yeager had been a War Hero, a man who had gone on fighting with bullets in him, an arm hanging off and down one leg with a foot gone after he stood on a mine. None of that had been enough to kill him because, like father like son, he'd understood death. When his fathers Wife, his own mother, had died, his father had come to an understanding _with_ death. Henry Yeager understood that, always had. In a way, the only one that mattered, it had been time. His father had simply pulled the trigger.

He started walking towards the storage room even as the lights flickered inside it. He suspected that he knew how his father had felt at the end, now, when he had finally realised that his time had come. He knew Peace.

"_**HEY!**_" bellowed the same FBI Agent, as the sound of jogging feet began to close on him, two sets. Henry lowered his opinion of the intelligence of both men. Clearly they had been given this job because they were too stupid to stand on street corners and catch common criminals. After all, how much trouble could you get into guarding a corpse? Idiots.

A sudden, sharp bang and screeching clatter echoed from the storage room as someone inside managed to knock over one of the metal stretchers inside, causing it to crash into the concrete floor. Neither FBI Agent still standing said another word, both simply broke into a dead sprint and crashed through the door into the storage room without stopping. A brief clatter of gunfire echoed, then a wet cough, before a final echoing clang sounded, then silence reigned.

The only sound left inside the building, barring the gentle hum of electricity, was the near-silent squeak of his shoes as he walked up to the door to the storage room, where he stopped. He could hear himself breathing, calmly and easily as ever. His heartbeat was echoing in his ears. He recited the Lords Prayer, kissed the silver cross he'd worn on a leather cord around his neck since he was five, then stepped into the room.

The lights were barely functioning, likely the result of a fight, but it was enough, even as flickering light granted him glimpses of the scene. One of the storage area lockers had been forced open, the door bent and warped around the lock. There was no body inside. _Outside_ it, though?

Blood seemed to have exploded everywhere, literally coating every flat surface in sight. Chunks of meat were visible, too, pink bullets in a pool of ugly, dark red. Fragments of clothing were visible in places, too. A gun could be seen, a pistol, half-drowned in blood.

He forced himself to observe the bodies, literally tattered bodies, as though some kind of wild animal had been at them. One's throat had been torn out, a second had had his chest crushed with such force that every bone in his chest had visibly been broken given the deformity that was still evident. Shards of sharp, bloody bone had torn through muscle, flesh and skin while gouts of blood had literally erupted out of the dead mans nose, mouth and massive chest wounds.

Henry guessed that the man whose throat had been torn out had been the one who had lived long enough to try and alert the others, despite the horrific nature of his injuries. He had no doubt that the man with the crushed chest had died instantly from such a terrible strike.

Closer to the exit door yet still soaked in blood, one of the Agents with an MP-5 lay on his side, clearly dead, empty eyes open and staring at nothing. He'd been gutted and disembowelled, throttled with his own intestines, which were still strung around his neck like a hideous kind of rope-or garrotte, Henry supposed. The last man, though...

The body was still twitching, even though the man had a hole going right through his chest, passing through the area his heart would have once occupied. Henry had no doubt this man had been the last to die-and his torment hadn't ended there.

On her knees in front of the corpse, the front of which was facing away from Henry, he could see, dimly, what appeared to be a young woman, a very attractive young woman. His view of her physical beauty was unhindered, since she was nude, but one thing spoiled it. The fact that she was covered head to foot in blood that had even soaked through her dark hair, the thick clots of blood where it had dried around lumps of torn flesh that dotted her body.

Then there was the _other_ thing, a sight that even he would die wishing he had never witnessed. The woman's teeth were just as stained as the rest of her, but, even as he watched, he realised that the reason was she was chewing on something that she had just torn loose from the dead man... Her head snapped up and she stared at him, other people's blood and meat spilling from her mouth and staining her lips like a Banquet in Hell. Her eyes were pure, awful, dead of space black, as though the stars had been cut out of the sky by God as the Devil laughed...

He put his rifle under his own chin even as she leapt, pulled the trigger a short second before her hands snapped out and ripped the gun out of his dead hands. It was his time to die, now that he'd finally realised the truth about death. For as much as he knew, he knew nothing about horrors like this. Nor would he ever wish to...

/End of Chapter 29. All Reviews welcomed/.


	30. Chapter 30

Legal disclaimers: I do not own or lay claim to any of the characters originating in Robert Ludlum's Covert One series, including Colonel Jon Smith and Marty Zellerbach. I'm just borrowing them for the purposes of this story.

Disclaimers: See earlier parts.

**The Last Day**

_Cairo, 2005_

It was early evening, with darkness settling in like silk sheets falling down onto a fine bed. The rugged, sand-blow buildings all about Cairo were casting thicker and darker shadows all the time even as the sun slipped below a horizon turned golden by broad swathes of sand. People still moved around in the streets below even now, calling out to passers by about foods and goods for sale.

The faint, continual murmur of sound coming from the local Mosque was undoubtedly the echoing sound of Prayer, a sound that was actually comforting if you allowed it to be, the woman known as Talia had found. Unfortunately for everyone she'd ever met, she never had and never would care about God, the Devil or anything connected to either, including whatever might happen after her own death. She had her reasons, which nobody else knew.

"Alright, love, why are we all here? Enough's enough with the waiting, you know?" asked Simon Walker, the bristles on his chin almost distracting Talia. It wasn't him that was distracting her, though, it was, as ever, Julia. The man had rugged good looks, certainly, with thick dark brown hair and eyes, a lean, muscular body and a rough Irish accent that was...pleasant to some ears, she supposed.

But, how could Julia kiss a man who was so poorly groomed that she risked the skin around her lips even when kissing him directly on the lips? She, Talia, didn't care if it was a man or a woman as long as she was satisfied and, in reality, she was well used to every kind of awkward and even painful posture and position. She'd always believed that Julia had standards beyond that sort of encounter, though. Maybe she was just using Walker as a distraction so didn't care? Yes, that made more sense.

"We are here to do a job, Simon. Wait your turn" replied Selene, seemingly absently cleaning under her nails with a vicious-looking hooked knife. They all knew better, everyone who'd see her fight did. Put a blade in Selene's hand and she could put it in your eye from a hundred metres away, or open you up in such a way that you would take a day to die with your guts on the outside. Her response wasn't a threat so much as a warning, but it stopped Walker cold.

"I think what the man is trying to say is, what's the plan here? I know that the lady there could thread the needle with any weapon at all, but you don't put a team like this together in the Middle East to tap someone. We all know this is more than that, so what's up?" asked Toni Cummings.

The tall, striking African-American security specialist, unlike Walker, was an expert and professional in her field who had gained the respect of the Styx Sister-excepting Anna Espinosa-by always delivering exactly what was required and paid for, on time, yet asking no unnecessary questions. Anna didn't like the woman because she'd refused a side Order from Anna recently on the basis she considered Anna untrustworthy and unstable. Also, because-although Toni hadn't spoken to anyone about her concerns-she suspected that the bunker Anna had tried to Commission wasn't for Anna's own use and she didn't appreciate being lied to by her clients.

In fact, Anna didn't know that Toni suspected she was being lied to, she simply believed that Toni was an arrogant bitch flying high on Commissions from high places, including the Sisters themselves. Toni, she believed, needed to be brought down to Earth with a bump to remind her where she _really_ lived. Anna didn't know for certain who had Commissioned the bunker she wanted Toni for, just that the money involved would make it _more_ than worth her while _if_ she could deliver.

Someone, it seemed, was reaching out to ex-KGB Agents, sources and resources with the intent of creating a network of contacts and Agents who would never know what they were each being used to do. Anna, who had been out of KGB circles for thirteen years since leaving when K-Directorate split off with her as part of it, had Contacts in a great many places in the world outside of Russia-and they all told her the same thing. No one knew who, no one knew why, but some Agency was building a stronghold of some kind and they were backed up by massive wealth and resources.

The whispered words were "Old School", a suggestion that a hidden monster from the old days was resurfacing, but that was as far as it went. To her frustration, her Contacts and she herself had been unable to uncover any more. Worse, if she couldn't force Toni to give her what she wanted, she'd loose any chance of finding out more. Possibly for good, depending on just what was being created by whoever was in charge of the new group.

"I'll answer you all at once, but none of you will like it" replied Talia, standing up slowly and making sure she had everyone's attention. She met the eyes of everyone there, one by one, to make sure. Only Julia and Cole didn't look away, although Selene looked away with such languid ease it was evident to everyone she was giving away nothing.

"It's very simple, really. We're going to cripple CIA operations in the Middle East because they've made very, very angry people who have the money and resources to make it worthwhile our doing so" said Talia, stating it as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Dead silence greeted her words, the kind of silence which normally only occurred when world leaders declared Armageddon. The air was so still in the empty old warehouse they were in that Simon Walker shifting his feet actually echoed, even as a smile crept across Toni Cummings face slowly but surely.

Very, very slowly Walker pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, plucked one from the packet, lit it and breathed in deeply. He looked up at Talia, took another deep pull and shook his head slowly.

"You're a crazy woman, but I have known that for a couple years now, lass. I didn't know you'd gone insane, though. Even if we could do this, the CIA would track us all down and butcher us like the animals it thinks we all are, no matter what we do or where we go. What, precisely, do you think you could possibly offer that would make me not take my boys get up and leave this place right now?" asked Walker, speaking slowly and clearly, as one did to the mad.

"Easy. A share of two hundred million, the entire CIA Black Budget for the region. That's how you want to do it, isn't it, T? Hit them where it hurts and give them no way to get it back except through people it doesn't know, right?" replied Toni Cummings.

"Yes and, more to the point, I already know exactly how to go about doing this thing. I'll lay it all out for every one of you once it's all had time to sink in. Questions?" asked Talia, looking around the table.

"One. Anybody gets caught on a job like this, even dead they can use him or her to find the others. We all know it. If we can do this mad thing, _if_, we can't leave even traces behind. What are our rules of engagement going to be, lass?" asked Walker, sounding subdued, which was rare for him. That meant, she knew, that he was considering just what was going to happen here if they did the deed.

"No surrender, no retreat. Either we all get in and out or, more likely, none of us do. The entire facility will be an open kill zone. Do what you have to do, no questions asked" said Talia, her lip curled. She knew Walker and his crew were thieves, not killers, even though they could pull their weight in a fight. More to the point, she knew what they could do when they had to, which meant she knew they could do what had to be done under pressure.

She was going to have Walker on-team whatever he decided, she'd do what _she_ had to do to achieve that goal, but it would be better if the decision came from him freely. She had little doubt that the share of two hundred million split between the nine of them would be more than enough to stroke his ego until he saw dollar signs rather than intelligent thought, though. The man, she knew from personal experience, worshipped money as his God and believed in little else.

"Alright, I'm in with my boys. Now lay it out and it had better be foolproof, lass" said Walker. At that, she just smiled. She had him now, whether he knew it or not.

Y

In the hotel, some hours later, Talia found herself playing cards with Selene. The reason this was strange was that Selene shouldn't have been able to get into the locked room Julia and Talia were sharing without either picking the lock or kicking the door down, but she opened and closed it without even pretending to use a key. Talia didn't doubt, were she to try the door herself, it would still be locked.

Odd things tended to happen around Selene, for reasons she made a point of not thinking too much about. She'd seen Selene just scratch a man's cheeks with her fingernails one time, yet five minutes later the man had died in agony that couldn't be imagined or described with all the blood in his body pouring out of every orifice, including the eyes, even as the man screamed and drowned in his own blood, his body convulsing so hard he'd broken his own back. It hadn't been a drug or poison, she'd have known, which just made Selene...odd.

None of it changed the fact that Selene was all predator, leonine muscle and lean, graceful movements, a cold-eyed killer with no respect for human life nor a need or wish to prove anything at all. Whip-quick, genius level smart with a capacity for suffering and pain, inflicted and received, that was so awfully incredible that even she, Talia, didn't want to test the other woman's limits. She was the definition _of_ a killer, with a beauty to die for and skills that allowed her to kill anyone, as quickly or slowly as she wished. As silently as she wished, too.

That was the reason the younger woman was the unofficial second in command of the Styx Sisters, as well as Talia's one real confidant. Talia was the one killer Selene had ever met she couldn't beat, while on an intellectual level they were close to equal. When the two of them worked together, as a result? It had been said the best thing to do was slit your own throat and try to hide in Hell.

"You may recall that Anna still believes we don't know she's on the Covenants payroll?" Selene began, shuffling the cards and expertly dealing a hand for a Poker game. It was a running joke between them, since Anna had no idea of who Talia really was despite the fact she knew her "Real" name.

"She's been approached from inside the Covenant by someone coming from the outside, I know that much. I'm sure Toni has guessed it, too. Why? Do you think she's finally going to be given the Kill Order?" Talia replied, studying her cards carefully.

She'd slit a mans throat with a card once, opened his windpipe and both jugular arteries, then just stood there and watched him die. Of course, she'd killed people with car keys, a can opener, a car door, leaves rammed down their throats, a shard of ice, a letter opener and even with passion before now... Well, people with weak hearts should make sure their medication was near to hand rather than stolen and hidden when they went to bed with her.

"Why are you worried? Don't you think Julia can take care of herself?" asked Selene. The expression on her face told everyone what she thought of that idea.

"I'd know before her if she'd been contacted that way. I'd get to her before she got to Julia if she tried to carry out the Order. Her remains would never be found if it came to that. Why?" asked Talia.

"Talia, the simple answer is because you've known she's a Deep Cover CIA Agent for a year now and gone out of your way to protect her despite that. She shares your bed, you tell her secrets, confide in her and trust her with your life. You are worried that Anna will try to stick a knife in her back, but there is a better chance the CIA will try to use her to put us all down and we both know it. So, answer me this" said Selene, leaning forwards and meeting Talia's eyes so close that both women could feel the others breath on their face.

"Is this some infantile infatuation you have allowed yourself, or are you actually in love with her? Sydney Bristow her, not Julia Thorne her, you understand? There is a terrible difference and, if you don't recognise that, you might as well be dead already. If you're in love with her, fine, I can accept that, from you. If not? Get _rid_ of her, Talia, as harshly as it takes. I won't die for her unless it's worth that to _you_, not her. I do not and never will trust the CIA" said Selene, sharply.

Talia actually had to pause for a moment to think about the question, not a problem she suffered from under almost any other circumstances, decisiveness was one of her strengths. But, where affairs of the heart were concerned, she was still learning to be honest with herself. After all those years of darkness and distraction she was, in truth, still wondering if she even _could_ honestly love another human being. For all her skill with her body as a lover of men and women, her own heart was a wilderness to her. But...

"Yes, I love her" she said, in the end, after a seconds long thought. For her, that was almost an eternity, just like it was almost a dreamlike experience, impossible to describe, meeting Selene's eyes and holding them.

The younger woman had eyes that were ancient in ways that defied description, she had a stare that could stop you dead in the street surrounded by a crowd of thousands with guns firing in the air all around. She had a presence that would turn every head in any room if she wanted to gain the attention-and a voice that was like Angels singing when she wanted to charm you. Her eyes were just like the rest of the woman, really, barely human and almost indescribable in reality.

"You love Sydney or Julia?" asked Selene, pointedly. She didn't allow anyone to dodge the question.

"Both, the only difference is the name. I know what she is, I know who she is, I will never forget it. But, I'll take her any way I can have her" replied Talia.

"I see. Then I do this for you. One last question, though?" asked Selene.

"Of course. Ask" replied Talia, going through her cards again.

"Why did nothing ever happen between you and me, Talia? We both know it would have been incredible" asked Selene, softly.

Talia just smiled at that, almost sadly. "You just answered your own question, Selene, because it _would_ have been incredible. We'd have killed each other because we would have meant so much to one another life itself would not have mattered. This, this is better" she replied, just as softly.

Selene leaned backwards slowly but surely, a slight smile on her face. "Agreed. Some things are worth dying for, though..." she finished.

_Abandoned industrial estate, 50 miles east of LA, 2007, one day ago_

"You _knew_?!" said Anna and Sydney together, the eyes of both women wide open in a combination of shock and disbelief. Talia wished, again, that Selene was present. The woman just had a way with getting her point across directly that she, Talia, sometimes lacked.

"Yes, Sydney, we knew. You hadn't had plastic surgery, you were wearing contacts and had dyed hair the first time we officially met. Selene and I knew you weren't who you said you were before even that, of course, she was the one who found out the Covenant had abducted you while I was the one who got an ID on you. We decided after six months that you were reliable, Deep Cover CIA or not. If you blew too many missions you had to know we'd track it back to you, so we did you a favour and drew a line between CIA interests and you" replied Talia, shaking her head.

"Besides, Simon Walker was a distraction to you and that was what you needed, Selene and I handled the dirty work while Cole kept an eye on you. What happened between you and me...wasn't planned, but I don't regret it. I'll never know what was in your mind when you first came to me, or what kept you coming, but sometimes? You just have to let Love speak for itself and show a little trust" Talia said. Then she smirked.

"Not that Simon Walker was anywhere near as much a distraction as he thought he was..." she couldn't help but add. That man's ego could have carried him to the Moon it had been so inflated when he'd been running with Julia as his Lover and Locksmith. She'd always wondered what he would have said if she'd pointed out Julia was a far more skilled and creative lover than he was, who had better stamina on top of that.

"You..." Sydney managed, seemingly barely able to get her mouth to work. Then she recovered, somewhat. "You were...with me _and_ with Simon? I didn't... I can't believe I'm having this _conversation_!" Sydney almost wailed. Talia just raised an eyebrow at that. What had been so different about Julia, she had to wonder? Just living a different life didn't change anyone _that_ much.

"No. I rode Simon _once_, just to see what he was like. The answer, for the record, is boring. Besides, you came to _me_, Sydney. Don't get uncomfortable about the fact that you found you enjoyed it now, whatever your reasons were then" Talia replied. Sydney just groaned at that, trying not to look at anything but the floor.

"What about _me_?! I was signed off and sealed up tight all the way up and down the line. There was no paper trail, no records existed, I was an independent Agent brought in to Run Julia Thorne and that was all you should have known! How the Hell did you find out otherwise?!" snapped out Anna. She stopped speaking when Cole, without any other visible reaction to her words, pulled out a heavy pistol, put the barrel to the back of her head and loudly took the safety off.

"Thank you, Cole. Anna, you may be a talented Agent, a professional, even a killer when it is called for, but you have never really understood _fear_. Selene and I do, a skill we are only too happy to share with others, even practice _on_ others. All we had to do was lock a man in a room and tell him just how long he had to live, just what would happen to him before he died, just how unlikely it was what would be left of him would be recognisable and possible to bury in a graveyard. Once we'd done that, he was very keen to communicate with us. I have no more to say on the matter" said Talia, very softly.

Anna didn't blink, she didn't look away, but she did swallow. For a woman like her, that was effectively a step backwards physically. She was scared, but she'd never admit it.

"Did we...did we do it? Did we actually hit the bank?" asked Sydney, faintly, still refusing to look at anything except the floor. Talia just chuckled at that.

"Of course we did. But that is when everything _really_ got interesting..." she replied. Anna just scowled at her at this, not that she cared...

/End of Chapter 30. All Reviews welcomed/.


	31. Chapter 31

Legal disclaimers: see earlier parts.

Disclaimers: see earlier parts.

**The Last Day**

_South Africa, 2005_

The two-storey structure was hidden away in the jungle on the outskirts of a small town, a nowhere place only the inhabitants really knew the name of. It was nothing special, just a slate-roofed structure with whitewashed walls which were slowly loosing their protection as the paint peeled away. Weather beaten worn dark wooden shutters were folded back from dirty glass windows surrounded by bars, while a heavy wooden door secured by crossed steel bands secured the front entrance.

A six-foot grey stone wall surrounded the building entirely, atop which barbed wire had been laid, forming a rough rectangle with front and back steel gates sealed by heavy, solid old locks. More barbed wire lay atop these, while the back of the house itself was secured by a secondary wall of the same height as the outside one, a slim metal door being the only passage through it. Inside a small garden was evident, with neatly trimmed grass and tended flowers making it evident that someone was often at home.

The outside of the structure was all for show, however, even as the brilliant sunshine of a South African summer shone down out of a cloudless sky. Electronic countermeasures mounted inside the walls and windows defeated any form of electronic probing from an external source, while carefully created and managed imaging systems always displayed the fact that the house was unoccupied to anyone who attempted a visual inspection, unless deactivated by the household staff or on Orders.

The two men who managed the gardening and did regular patrols of the property to assure it's physical security were both ex-SAS soldiers who had a minimum of ten years actual combat experience. The woman was a former Mossad Agent and Metsada Assassin who ensured the internal security of the house and made sure nobody tried to either bug it or gain entrance by any means except through direct invitation.

It wasn't common knowledge that the structures security and household personnel were so..._exceptional_, as some would say. But it was known that crime in the area had simply ended since they'd caught two would-be burglars trying to break into their home. The two youthful criminals hadn't been physically injured beyond bruising when they'd tried to fight, but whatever had been said to them had made them pack up and leave the area by the end of the same day.

The people they'd associated with had been left too scared to do anything that they might get caught doing afterwards-and refused to say why when asked and even interrogated. All they'd say was that they'd rather do ten years in a Maximum Security jail and stay in their cells all day and all night without speaking than make the people who lived in that house angry. Ever.

The inside of the house, regardless, actually appeared normal to the naked eye, with the electronics concealed and only worn, ageing sets of furniture to be seen. Reasonably priced-for a mid-range wealth collector-works of art and the occasional artefact provided decoration and distraction. Far less obvious than even the concealed high-order electronics were the weapons built into walls, floors and ceilings, concealed gear hidden in household items and the structure of cupboards, tables and even objects such as kettles. The owner of the property believed in being prepared for every eventuality-as well as in never being taken off guard.

The secure area that nobody but those told of it knew existed was sited in a reinforced bunker beneath the house. It had a main entrance through the house and an emergency exit that led out through somewhere else. It contained a full-scale computer suite and planetary scale holographic model referred to as an "Attack Centre" by the elite military units who tended to be the one's who used devices like it. Also held within was an armoury filled with military-grade weaponry and explosives, a supply room which held sufficient supplies and purified water to supply an individual for six months and a complex communications suite that could tap into or connect with any electronic communication system in the world. Those were just the necessities.

Talia believed in planning ahead, she always had, but sometimes that wasn't enough, so she'd Commissioned the Bunker in 2003 and supplied it in 2004. It was both a bolthole and a stronghold for her, one of several, but not one she had ever honestly expected to end up sharing. Under the circumstances, however, given who was now after them? It had become a necessary evil, just not one she was happy with.

Something she was even less happy with, though, was the pain she was suffering. She was standing in the shower, heat on high, warm water scouring her skin and driving through her loose hair, the water running down over her smooth skin gracing her with the soft suggestion of delicate lovers fingers. Her hands were in front of her, braced flat against the wall, her head down as her hair fell over her shoulders and chest as she allowed the heat and warm water to relax her.

None of this took away from the ugly, dark wound in her side, a small hole at the front and a larger one at the back, the trail through her side being marked by purple, yellow and black bruising. It passed directly under a rib and was deep enough it would have done real damage if she hadn't been so quick to turn as the bullet bit into her, two days ago now.

She'd tended to it herself, stopped the bleeding and bound it up, so the healing could begin once she'd made sure the bullet had actually passed through her. Unfortunately she'd been on the move ever since, so now was the first time in 48 hours she'd had a moment to rest, relax and give her body time to repair itself properly. She could still see thin traces of blood trickling from both ends of the wound...

It wasn't going to heal while she was in the shower, though. She shut the water off, stepped out, towelled herself down and treated the wound again, bandaging it carefully. Then she pulled on a white shirt, a pair of black trousers and elegant shoes and stepped outside.

In the corridor Julia was waiting for her, of course, now wearing light brown leggings, a grey shirt and soft-soled brown shoes. Her left eye was still swollen over halfway shut, her jaw was a huge bruise and, by the looks of her, she was barely recovered from her Concussion. Underneath the loose clothes, Talia knew, far more heavy bruising and two cracked ribs were hidden away.

The Egyptian Unit 777 had been considerably less than gentle in their attempts to subdue the Styx Sisters Agent the CIA had told them was a renegade-not that she had any intention of revealing that fact to Julia-and going to her aid had been what had gotten Talia shot. She'd killed five men in a massacre lasting less than a minute, then the last man had gotten a shot off even as she punched his nose up into his brain. It had been like having a red-hot poker rammed into her side between her ribs, but she'd stayed on her feet and even kept moving.

Cole had picked the bloodied and battered Julia up and carried her in a Fireman's lift at a sprint as they escaped, but he'd taken two bullets for his trouble, one in the upper left leg, the other high in the left arm. He hadn't so much as staggered, let alone slowed down, even with his own blood drenching his arm. Of course, he'd been there when she'd needed him. Even though he was now going to be walking with a limp for at least three weeks until his leg healed.

"Okay?" Julia managed, her voice slurred by her damaged jaw. Short words were the most she could get out at the moment, even with her dislocated jaw reset and powerful Painkillers in her bloodstream. It didn't matter to Talia or Cole, who could tell what she meant by body language, but it clearly frustrated the normally eloquent Julia no end.

"Fine, thank you. Shall we?" replied Talia, running a gentle finger over Julia's bruises. The younger woman didn't flinch or blink, her pride wouldn't allow her to, but Talia could see the pain in her eyes. It said something about Julia's resilience that the beating hadn't cracked her skull, since by rights that kind of assault should have put her in a Coma at least. Of course, _she_ of all people knew just how tough Julia really was.

Julia nodded and they strode down to the Command Centre. Cole was waiting outside the door, wearing one of his normal black suits with the jacket slung over one arm, showing no sign of injury at all. He didn't even limp when he stood up straight and strode over to meet them. Of course, Cole wouldn't react if he had an arm torn off, he'd just aim the blood spray at his enemies and keep fighting until he dropped, so that was no surprise.

They went into the Command Centre and met the others, Selene, Anna Espinosa, Toni Cummings, Simon Walker and his men. Selene was the only one in the room who carried no injuries, she'd stalked through the firestorm of burning lead, exploding electricity and explosions of all sizes and descriptions like the Angel of Death and killed every single person that she'd either had line of sight on or come within arms reach of. Trying to kill the woman when she was at her peak was like trying to kill smoke, while she made destruction and death in appalling amounts look like a dance.

Dressed in a black silk shirt, form-fitting leggings and boots which reached her mid lower leg, Selene looked more like she'd come from the Catwalk than run straight here from a battle. Even her hair and makeup were perfect. She was stunning, perfect-and Talia couldn't help but smile at the sight.

Anna had tried to make a run for it all by herself, but she'd literally been run down by a car and been left with an arm and half her head stuck through the windscreen while her legs were tangled on the double bumper. Unfortunately for the driver she'd had a Backup weapon and she was as good a shot with her left arm as her right, three shots through the windscreen killing the driver being excellent proof. She'd torn herself free of the shattered windscreen and, mangled as she was, driven the battered vehicle to the Extraction point.

Broad, shallow cuts all over her face and upper neck were still fresh and evident, while she kept rubbing her injured arm as though it was causing her a pain she couldn't quite subdue. A dark-blue t-shirt, light blue jeans and grey trainers revealed the greater part of the jagged wounds in her arm, treated and no longer bleeding but still open and evident. Anna was of the "Old School" of treatment, one who believed that you left wounds to heal as they would, or not, since if you didn't recover then you should never have lived in the first place. She simply wasn't as capable of dealing with the pain as Cole.

Simon Walker and his three men looked as though they'd lost an argument and then a fight with a Combine Harvester driven by a man with a machine gun. They were all a mass of bandages, stitches and so many bruises she wasn't even sure they'd all be able to walk under their own power. The only man of the team she cared to know was Walker himself and, since he was present and evidently not about to die, she ignored them all.

Finally, there was Toni Cummings. She was sitting next to Selene, who was clearly keeping a close eye on her. Her hair had been cut short to remove evidence of burns, she was wearing dark glasses to shield her delicate eyes until she could see normally again and her hands remained heavily bandaged. The burns around her face and neck were still evident in the swelling of her dark skin where her clothes hadn't protected her, but at least she was upright and seemingly mobile.

Toni had had it worse than all of them. She'd just shut down the central security console after bypassing the countermeasures began when the gun battle which had been going on for five minutes by that point finally started doing real damage. Something critical to the power systems in the bank had been hit-and the computer Toni had been working on had literally blown up in her face while she was close to the screen with her hands on the keyboard.

Toni's scream had been unearthly, hideous in its release of a kind of agonising pain that the human mind refused to imagine. Massive surges of electricity had almost burnt the skin, flesh and muscle right off of the bones of her hands and threatened to boil her eyes in her head before Selene had tackled the other woman with such force she'd nearly broken Toni's back on landing. Toni's clothes had caught fire on top of that and Selene had been forced to tear them away as well as to fight the fire with her bare hands. In the end, semi-conscious and in such agony that she couldn't even function, Toni had been half-carried, half dragged out by Selene.

Now dressed in a light blue shirt, trousers and grey trainers, it was very evident that Selene was still watching Toni's back. Why Talia could only guess, but she suspected that Selene regarded Toni as the member of the Styx Sisters she would rather have than Anna-and they looked after their own.

The entire room was surrounded by computers, small exit doors and security systems monitoring everything in the bunker. In the middle, around which they all sat, the holographic display system sat in the form of a broad, flat table with miniaturised projectors set in a perfect circle. If she'd had a recap of the Op in mind, it would have been the perfect time and place to detail it. But, that wasn't her intent now. Everyone took their seats and she prepared to begin-but Walker cut her off.

"I'll bloody well start, then. Lets get this straight: we were burned on this one from the inside out before we ever got into gear. Anyone disagree, say so now" snapped Walker.

"Don't be an idiot, Walker, it's obvious we were burnt. The question isn't even why, considering just what we were on the job to do and who showed up to stop us. It's _who_" snarled Anna, staring at each face at the table in turn. She stared at Julia, but didn't get even a deep breath as a response. Talia held her gaze until Anna had to look away, while Selene didn't even bother pretending to care. Toni, who was temporarily blind, wasn't even sure what was going on.

"Tell me, K-Directorate, how, precisely, does that not point the finger most directly at _you_, first of all? You are ex-KGB and K-Directorate, the rest of us are ghosts when we are even known to exist. We are free Agents and real Mercenaries, while we all know you were added to out team as part of a deal with the Covenant. Toni, for example, would be killed by the end of the day if her neutrality was ever in question to the people she supplies. I suggest you answer clearly" asked Selene, sharply.

Anna was under Orders from the Covenant to conceal "Julia's" true identity at all costs, Talia knew, or she could have turned that argument around immediately. It only made her angrier that she couldn't blame what had happened on her long-time nemesis, especially now-or so she thought-she finally had the other woman under her power. Anna wouldn't have survived as long as she had in the murky world they all lived in without being able to come up with creative lies on the spot, though, a fact she quickly proved.

"You have a very short memory, Selene. After the Director of K-Directorate was assassinated and his Deputy executed when the deal to pass over Rambaldi artefacts was blown "The Man" sent his Agents to roll up K-Directorate while we were bereft of leadership. I spent six months running for my life and came to realise one thing: I, myself, am the _only_ person I can rely on, utterly. I _was_ an Agent, now I am as mercenary as the rest of you. I only care about the pay and a job well done, just like you. If you think I am Suicidal enough to want to go back to the old ways, why haven't you killed me?" Anna asked, with a sneer.

"This is fascinating, really. Everybody here is more interested in tearing chunks out of one another than actually working out why what happened did the way it did" said Toni Cummings, her voice weak but still strong enough to carry to everyone's ears.

For a moment, everyone stopped talking at that-and Talia spotted Selene squeezing Toni's shoulder in support. If Selene kept that idea in motion, one day soon Anna was going to disappear and never be seen again. Personally speaking, Talia wouldn't have cared if the arrogant woman _did_ abruptly disappear. But it meant that they would have to go to War with the Covenant...

"Lets get back on track. We could have been burned from the inside, or the Covenant could have burned us. We do not and cannot know which actually occurred. What we _do_ know is that, after this, there is a very good chance that the CIA either has pictures or good descriptions of us all. Anonymity is critical and more to what we do, anyone who doesn't realise that needs to leave the room before I kill them. Useful suggestions as to how we deal with this?" asked Selene, running her fingers absently up and down Toni's neck.

"Disband for six months and live our Cover Stories. Forget we know each other, no contact at all, making no suspicious moves and pretend, very hard, that we are who we say we are. If we don't, we die. Matters are that simple" said Talia, her tone of voice suggesting that this was the idiot's solution. Despite the pain in her jaw, Julia managed a smile at that.

"Doesn't matter to _me_, lass, although I should think there will be less money for us all with half of us going away for a while. I'm in, so are my boys, long as you ladies don't forget us" replied Walker.

"Agreed" muttered Julia, wincing at the pain just speaking made explode in her jaw. Still, it had to be said.

"Done" replied Selene, while Cole simply nodded his head. Those two, of course, she could always count on.

"Hold on, what about-" began Anna, but Talia just looked her in the eyes and she stopped talking. Seconds later she broke the stare, shaking her head slowly.

"This is lunacy, but...agreed. Now what? Do we scatter to the four corners of the earth or pretend we can be normal people for a while, Talia?" Anna said, practically hissing Talia's name. If Talia had cared about the other woman's opinion of her at all, such an act would have cost her a little finger. Since Anna was just another Agent, Talia simply made a note for future reference. There would be plenty of time yet for pain.

"You, Anna, can go and work in a Lesbian Bordello for all I care. The rest of us have our means and ways. Enjoy yourselves, watch your backs, keeps your eyes open, shoot first and ask questions later if your worried. Now go" said Talia, waving them all off. They all left, Anna last of all-no doubt she already had a plan in mind to keep Julia under surveillance no matter where she went or what she did. Almost a pity, if Anna could have purged her arrogance from her approach and methods she would have made for a truly effective Agent.

Just after everyone else had left, Julia and Talia were left alone in the bunker. Talia had several possibilities in mind as to what they could do next, but both were surprised when Julia's mobile phone rang. It was her private phone and almost everyone who knew the number had only just left. Puzzled, Julia pulled her phone out, flipped it open-and discovered she didn't recognise the number. She decided to answer it anyway, hit Reply and put it to her ear.

"Hello?" she asked, not sure who or what to expect. The list of numbers the technology her phone contained couldn't identify or trace was very short. Whoever was calling her was on that list.

"_Hello Sydney. We need to talk_" came Mavra Kalia Rasputin's voice.

Julia abruptly found it hard to speak or even breathe as _that_ woman's voice suddenly came into her ear. Even as she listened, though, she could tell that Talia was giving her a very odd look...

_Abandoned industrial complex, 50 miles east of LA, one day ago, 2007_

"I...you...you can't stop _there_! Who is Mavra Kalia Rasputin?! What did we talk about?! What did I _do_?!" Sydney almost wailed, feeling like her head was splitting and wishing she had some military-grade painkillers. Somehow, she had no doubt all of these people were telling the truth. Somehow, she knew that she had done what they said she'd done.

Now, she _knew_ why the CIA had been so reluctant to fill in the gaps. If she'd actually been involved in the raid and helped the Styx Sisters succeed in their goal, Deep Undercover or not? She'd committed Treason, at the very least. She didn't remember any of this, still, excepting flashes-perhaps-but if the CIA even so much _suspected_ her involvement and was simply lacking proof they could be hoping she'd lead them to...

She could taste ashes in her mouth, hear her heart beating, too fast but steady. Her hands were shaking, she was sweating heavily, she was only seeing shadows. The CIA had used her as an extraordinary opportunity and Agent to affect a Deep Penetration of the Covenant, even deflecting her attempt to return to her own life to get what it wanted from her, but they'd outdone themselves. Whatever level of desperation and despair they'd driven her to, she'd gone through with actions she would once never have been able to even consider herself capable of.

She'd committed Treason in action directly contrary to the interest of the CIA in the Middle East, possibly helped cripple the CIA in that part of the world for a whole year if the sums being mentioned were accurate. On top of that, Talia had never explained what had happened to the _money_...

Now an Agent she didn't know the name of had entered into things, a woman who had scared her almost to death when she'd been "away" and presumed dead by almost everyone she knew and loved. Just what in the name of God could happen _next_?!

"I apologise, Sydney" said Talia, after a pause. "But I can't tell you what you did with and for Mavra because nobody knows except you and her. Also, with a woman like her? You aren't told about her, you learn of her. You'll understand when she makes contact with you..." Talia finished, softly.

The only thought going through Sydney Bristow's mind at that point was that she'd never been so scared in her life. Had never considered she _could_ be so scared. Then her mobile phone rang-and it shocked her so badly that she almost fell out of her chair and fainted.

_...Oh, God..._

/End of Chapter 31. All Reviews welcomed/.


	32. Chapter 32

Legal disclaimers: see earlier parts.

Disclaimers: see earlier parts.

**The Last Day**

_Langley, 2007, one day ago_

"Irradiated? _All_ of them, your sure? No, I don't doubt your assessment, I just want to be sure of what I'm dealing with before I get calls from Homeland and the CDC. Do you know how...? _**Who**_?! ...Yes, that would explain it, but it also makes this situation far more complicated. No, do not proceed with an investigation. Homeland will be on this like a steel trap the second they can get feet on the ground, but the CDC will kick everyone it has to out of the way in a case like this. Secure the area until you're relieved" said CIA Director Hayden Chase, shaking her head even as she put down the phone.

She knew the address and the name, one didn't reach the position of Director in an organisation like the CIA without finding out at least some of the big secrets-and she'd made use of Cactus's services more than once herself. The mans work had been flawless, worth every penny every time. The work of a master Forger-and now he was dead, out of the blue, with six dead men in his house who had evidently gone there to kill him but had died of Radiation poisoning.

People like Cactus never just died, though, something had _caused_ the mans death. Something which, she had no doubt, she would find out about sooner rather than later. Then there was the "matter" of Edward Norton McAllister's assassination to consider, in the streets of Washington DC no less. Five minutes after the attack she'd taken a call from the Director of the FBI, who'd almost blown a fuse while screaming at her about having no warning about McAllister even possibly being a target. Then the Secretary of State had called her from the White House directly and asked her precisely when had open season been declared on senior government officials, Retired and otherwise, since the FBI hadn't had any idea McAllister was at risk, or Conklin?

Homeland Security had been next and, after essentially stating that the CIA was totally incompetent, the Director of Homeland had stated that he was well on his way to loosing all faith and trust in her as Director of the CIA. He'd also stated he would be taking his concerns to the President. Then she'd taken a call from the Commissioner of the DC Police who had politely asked if she could tell him before the next terrorist attack was due, please, since he would actually like to know if they were under siege before it occurred. The Director of the NSA had followed, inviting her to explain to him just why intercepts forwarded to the CIA warning of precisely what had occurred possibly occurring _hadn't _been passed to the relevant parties...

She'd been on the point of taking out her weapon, marching down to her Analysts cubicles and opening fire out of sheer frustration after the call from the FBI, since it was not the job of the CIA to protect officials from domestic terrorism and they should have been able to get her results to pass the FBI and others before now. But she hadn't, instead she'd sat down and taken the insults and abuse, all because she was trying to protect the CIA by dealing with Jason Bourne in-house through APO.

When she'd sworn the Oath of office before the intelligence panel she'd told them, flat out, that Project: Treadstone was dead. It hadn't been a lie, the Project _was_ dead, she would not have a team of brainwashed elite assassins operating under her authority when control over them was at best "probable"-a fact made clear by the actions of Bourne himself. Besides, killing created all kinds of other problems that would have to be dealt with down the line, she'd done Wetwork in her time and had first-hand experience. No, Above Top Secret teams of the very best Agents given the freedom to do what had to be done with no direct links to the CIA was the way to go.

But...it wasn't working, or at least wasn't working _yet_. It was reaching the point, though, that either she made the hunt for Bourne official and came clean with the Intelligence Committee or she rolled out the heavy guns and just got it done. APO was her initiative, sure, but she wasn't going to take the fall for it if the team couldn't do the job. She'd just shut it down, put it away and lock the door behind it, leave the "former" Agents to dangle in the wind. They'd all known that results were the whole point when they'd signed up...

...Her right hand was clenching into a fist again, her nails were scratching the desktop. Her eyes were feeling warm and damp again, but she shook her head angrily and forced back the swirling emotions she simply could _not_ deal with right now. Despite everything, _after_ everything, she'd received a call that had nearly shattered her self-control like broken glass against a bomb. From Arvin Sloane, no less, who had heard from the "missing" Jack Bristow out of the blue.

Marcus Dixon was dead, the first man she'd honestly let herself even begin to fall for in ten years was KIA-_no_, using a term like that to describe that man's death was repugnant. He'd been killed, by an enemy, he'd died in the line of duty-and he would be remembered. More to the point, he would be honoured, he'd earned that and more, much more.

Somebody was going to die for his death, someone who needed _to_ die, even if they didn't think so, even if she had to pull the trigger herself. She knew just who, as well...

_LA_

She'd been awake for three hours now, yet she'd only remembered her name half an hour ago. Her body had repaired itself, as always happened, but her mind...things had been questionable at best there for thirteen years now. Sometimes she was amazed there was even enough left of her to function day-to-day.

Of course, there was a real chance there _wasn't_ much of "her" left. The deal she'd struck in Innsmouth, reinforced during her trip to R'lyeh, made her humanity...questionable at best. But that had advantages and disadvantages to consider and now wasn't the time.

She'd killed both the guards in the Morgue with her bare hands before the old attendant had shot himself, really no more than a mindless killing machine until enough of her mind had come back to stop her. Too late, the Morgue had looked like a Butchers nightmare, but she'd regained enough intelligence to realise that she'd drawn the massive amount of blood needed to accelerate her healing Ritual. She'd known to torch it, but not enough to check the bodies, so all she'd found to wear was a pair of trousers she'd stolen from a balcony a normal human couldn't have reached and a too-large brown leather jacket with a broken zipper she'd found thrown out like trash.

The jacket was soaked in alcohol and was worn thin, it stank of other things she didn't want to consider. She still had dried blood over parts of her bare skin beneath her clothes the hasty attention of dirty water from a puddle and scraping fingernails couldn't easily remove, she was walking around barefoot with stringy, sticky hair. Then there was the matter of her eyes...

The Ritual had been stripping away pieces of her since she'd started using it, but it had changed things, too. Now it had changed her eyes, from "normal" to so deep and dark black that even just looking into her own eyes in a shop window had been almost enough to make her flinch. It had been like looking into the Abyss and discovering it lead on straight down past Hell to worse, but that was a line she'd crossed a _long_ time ago. All that really bothered her was the fact that she'd have to wear either contact lenses or sunglasses to interact with most humans, now.

It did complicate matters even more severely than they already were, though. The Bulldog knew of her "Lazarus" talent, he'd made use of it before now, even some of her less...questionable habits. But Gibbs and his team knew _nothing_ about her, not really, nor did any US intelligence Agency or individual. What little even the Bulldog knew about her wasn't down on paper or stored on computer _anywhere_, since if her unique talents ever became well known of she'd be dissected by various interested parties to see how she "worked". Not that they could learn anything from her dead body or any part of it...

That left her with only one option, at least for the moment. She needed to disappear for a while, a trick she could only rely on with people she could trust to help her. Fortunately, getting together sufficient coinage to make a quick phone call had been a simple matter of pick pocketing a disgusted-looking young woman who had hurried past her so quickly, after no more than glimpsing the mess she was in. She'd been looking for a public phone away from common areas ever since, now she'd found one, tucked in back of a disused restaurant only squatters now cared about.

She made sure no one was watching her, then checked that there was a dial tone before putting in the money and dialling. The message needed to be short and direct, so it was.

"It's me, don't respond to this message aloud. The hotel, one hour" she said, her English accent apparent, then she put the phone down and walked quickly away. Now she just had to wait.

_Abandoned industrial complex, 50 miles east of LA, one day ago_

Talia's phone rang, unexpectedly given the expression on her face from what Sydney could see. She checked user ID, then flipped it open. Whatever the caller said, though, Talia didn't reply aloud, although she did blink. Then a slow smile spread across her face even as she shut off the phone and slipped it back into a pocket.

"A welcome surprise, it seems that we are going to have an unexpected guest here. Sydney, if you can wait, I need to go and collect her in an hour. In 120 minutes I'll be back here and we can continue this, unless you need to take a break?" asked Talia, a question that Sydney saw made Anna's eyebrows shoot up. Evidently, not at all to her surprise, Talia wasn't the type to wait on _anybody_. Which said plenty about just what she, Sydney-or was it Julia?-had once shared with Talia.

She still barely had the first idea what that really was, or how it had honestly come about. Some things just weren't covered in storytelling intended to fill in the gaps of lost memory, no matter how much detail the teller was willing to go into. Or at least, not unless she could get Talia alone and relaxed...several options that would allow her to do that drifted through her mind, one or two _almost_ making her blush. The fact that she wasn't so bothered by any of the options, though...?

Besides which, with so much swirling around in her mind at the minute Sydney wasn't even sure she could trust her mind or body to work properly, if at all. She didn't like to think too hard on why or how, but she _knew_ they were all telling her the truth. It was like a fog was clearing away, little by little, every time she learnt something about herself she didn't know. As though the pieces were gradually starting to click into place?

"Go, but bear in mind I might have to leave at a moments notice" she replied, with a nod. Talia nodded in return and left so suddenly that Sydney would have missed the movements, let alone the silent footfalls, if she'd even so much as blinked. That woman was more like Death itself than she ever wanted to consider.

_Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam_

The man who entered the Infirmary at the Embassy looked as though he'd just run ten miles through the desert without stopping, Nadia Santos couldn't help but think, when he straight-armed the door open with such force it nearly came off it's hinges even as he marched inside. His face was streaked with sweat and stained with what looked like grains of sand, his hands were still dripping with water which he had to have just washed them with and his long-for a soldier-black hair looked like he hadn't washed or brushed it in a month.

Windblown hair that was actually thick enough to be shifted around by the wind was twisted and tangled, while very sharp navy blue eyes gleamed in a golden-tanned face which spoke of countless hours in the sun. He was wearing very light brown and mixed black camouflage fatigues obviously designed for the desert, a cap hanging almost haphazardly out of one pocket, while heavy dark brown boots covered his feet. All of his clothing looked weather worn, as though he'd worn the same clothes for days, while the scuffed, well-worn boots had clearly seen extensive, heavy use.

Despite the fact he had to be about fifty in her estimation, he didn't look it. Slight lines were visible around his eyes and mouth while his black hair had traces of grey running through it, but his skin was smooth and his tall, lean form-he stood almost as tall as Jack Bristow-was solidly muscular, an athletes build with weights used to add on physical strength. He had the kind of solid, hard body that men twenty years his junior would have had to work hard for and that, as much as the way he marched rather than moved, eyes tracking and assessing every possible threat all of the time, told her that the man was a lifelong soldier. His uniform was just a signature.

There was more to him than that, though, something which puzzled her. Soldiers thought of everything in respect of what threat it could or did pose to them and anything or anyone they were assigned to guard or protect, like he was doing. But...

Spies, like her and Jack, who was sitting by her bedside as he had been almost non-stop since she'd regained consciousness and probably before then, scanned the shadows first, then corners, doorways, ceiling and floor, walls and, finally, the rest of the room, unless they had very good reason to do otherwise. What _couldn't_ be seen was just as important as what _could_ be, since the danger in their world, a fact good Agents never failed to take advantage of, could be anything at all, could _come_ from anywhere at all, even any_one_.

The soldier was checking the room in the way she would expect a soldier to-_and_ in the way she would expect a Spy to. Every step was measured, every gesture noticed and noted, faces filed away for future reference. She had no doubt he could have told her of everything in the room with a smile and even it's distance from his current position and destination, if asked. There was more to the man than met the eye, possibly _much_ more...

The man marched over to the comatose Randi Russell's bed without pause after taking in her and Jack, where he pulled a chair from the side of the room up close to the bed so he could look directly into her face. That done, he grabbed her Medical Chart and started reading through it. Another skill that was unusual amongst apparently serving combat soldiers, he clearly understood the medical lingua franca. She _really_ needed to know who he was before anything else happened, but-before she could draw in breath to speak-Jack surprised her by rising to his feet.

"Excuse me, Nadia" he said, softly, then strode over to the man. Nadia just slowly shook her head at his actions, something else, or some_one_ else, that she didn't know about Jack did. She almost thought he could be a normal man who happened to have an unusual job sometimes, then she was reminded about just how little she really knew about him and his world when things like this happened.

Y

He'd recognised the younger man the moment he'd walked through the door, even though they hadn't worked together in years. Randi Russell he hadn't known before today, on top of which his watching over Nadia had prevented him from checking her File, but what little Nadia had been able to tell him made it clear that she was a capable Agent. Quite possibly far more than just capable, in fact, although he suspected she would loose her injured arm given that he understood the bones had been shattered, the muscles and tendons torn apart, but that wasn't his problem just now.

He knew that the man had registered his presence and very likely recalled his identity, but it was a clear fact that the severely injured CIA Agent was both his priority and the reason for his abrupt arrival. His focus and all of his attention would be focused on her, as it had to be with a Doctor, but it occurred to Jack that the man might prove valuable in other ways, too.

"Jon Smith?" he asked, well aware that it was a bad idea to startle or surprise the man. He'd seen Smith fight and knew the man had Special Forces combat training, it was no exaggeration to say that he could kill with just a touch in the right place.

Jack, at fifty-six, had been in the CIA for thirty-five years. He'd killed people in every way there was, knew more than he'd ever wanted to about pain, inflicting and suffering it. He knew means and ways to break strong men using just words and eye contact. He had seen and done things so terrible that the imagination failed and nightmares that woke one up screaming for weeks on end weren't dark or hideous enough.

Jon Smith, at forty-seven years of age, had been there alongside him at some of the darkest moments of his Career. He'd lost his Fiancée to an awful event which had started him on the road which he'd met Jack Bristow on in the end, not that the journey was anywhere near over, then walked on down the road into the dark with his eyes wide open. He'd saved the whole world from an Apocalyptic nightmare the full details of which would never be publicly known, then gone on to preserve and protect America against all comers, whatever the cost to himself personally.

He was one of the hardest, coldest professional men Jack had ever met in his entire Career, a career soldier and sometime intelligence Agent for Covert One, an Intelligence Agency so secret and secure that even the CIA didn't know it existed. An organisation that recruited and retained only the very elite individuals with exceptional skill bases, experience and the kind of motivation that couldn't be bought. Jon Smith was one of Covert One's top Agents, as was Jack himself.

For all of his dedication, focus, skill and ability, though, he'd never lost something Jack had thrown away forever on the days after his "Wife's" death, when he'd learnt the truth of who she was and what she'd been doing. It had hurt too much then, it would now, so he lived inside the shell where it was so hard to reach him. It served him well... But Jon Smith, when the job was done, would smile, laugh, enjoy himself, have friends and even lovers rather than brushing encounters.

The difference between them was fundamental, but hard to explain, let alone for Jack to understand. After everything Jon Smith could and did still care and, rarely, even let it affect him in the field. Jack hadn't been able to do that in so long the memory of when he had was fading, yet he could find very little difference between the two of them, really...

"Jack Bristow. I'd be glad to see you here if I thought you'd been sent here for other reasons. Were you involved in what happened?" replied Smith, his voice calm. Jack wasn't fooled, Jon was very, very angry, his body language said that even if his face didn't, even if his eyes lied. Something told Jack the pale, seriously injured young blonde woman in the infirmary bed was the main reason, to. That...relationship had developed considerably since the last time he'd seen them together, it seemed.

"No, I arrived afterwards and came straight here when I got the news. You?" asked Jack.

"Training mission in Israel, War "Rehearsal" and planning. After the news reached me I took Emergency Leave and got here as directly as I could. Who _was_ involved in this?" asked Smith, clearly asking as an Agent rather than as a friend.

"You're asking the wrong man in the wrong place, Jon, you know such things have to be discussed privately with only close friends. You understand, of course" said Jack. He knew Smith would, both of them were old hands.

"Completely. I presume the young lady is a friend of yours?" asked Jon, glancing at Nadia, who had fallen asleep again despite her best efforts. The fact she wanted to hear what was going on simply wasn't enough to override her injured bodies need for rest and time to heal.

"She's an associate of mine I'm looking after for the minute. She'll recover fully in time. What is Randi's status?" asked Jack. The Doctors had refused to answer his questions since he was no longer officially a part of the CIA and had no official authority in the Embassy. Only the fact Sloane had him listed as Nadia's Uncle under "Next of Kin" had stopped the Doctor in charge from having him thrown out by the Marines, who were far from happy at the loss of so many of their own with the convoy attack. They'd have "accidentally" bounced his head off the stairs as they'd thrown him out, he had no doubt, as a stranger arrived so soon after the attack. But then he would have had to put them down and that would have had consequences.

He _could_ have called Director Chase to straighten matters out, but APO was a Deep Black Covert Unit and he simply wouldn't compromise security that way. It was better to leave Sloane to deal with matters through back channels. He'd stick with his Cover Story of a Retired Spook who had been in country at the time of the attack who had immediately hurried to the Embassy following the attacks to check on his Niece. The fact there was no record of him entering the country was not his problem...

"Broken collarbone, cracked breastbone, seven broken ribs on the left side, punctured lung, internal bleeding, severe bruising over most of her body, a Concussion and several lacerations. Left arm broken in nine places, bones shattered rather than snapped. Diagnosis is that, short of a medical miracle, she will spend six months to a year in Intensive Care and, even if she lives, loose her injured arm. Likely long-term health consequences as a result of the extent of her injuries" said Jon, his voice utterly flat, a mechanism used to suppress particularly strong emotional reactions Jack was well used to.

Since he'd just stated that a woman he cared about a great deal was, to all intents and purposes, a cripple, Jack didn't blame him. He didn't say a word, either, because there was nothing to say to such awful news. Instead he briefly laid a supporting hand on Jon's shoulder, then nodded to him in understanding and returning to Nadia's side. Jon smiled briefly in return, then left to find somewhere private and secure to make a call to a unique number.

A mobile phone rang with a musical signature Jack didn't recognise, which he took a long moment to realise was Nadia's phone, which he'd secured as soon as he'd reached the Embassy. He pulled it out and flipped it open, called ID was "Eric"-Jack knew it meant Eric Weiss without thinking about it. He answered and put the phone to his ear.

"_Nadia?_" came Weiss's voice less than a second later, his voice almost frantic with worry. Jack just sighed, this was precisely why Agents should never enter into anything other than professional relationships with one another.

"No, Weiss, it's Jack, Nadia can't answer the phone at the minute. Where are you and what are you doing at this moment?" Jack asked.

"_Jack? How did you...? Never mind, how is Nadia. And how are YOU, Jack_?" asked Weiss quickly.

"Alive and intact, as is Nadia, if in need of medical attention and rest. Answer my question, please" said Jack.

"_I'm in the air on route to you as we speak, ETA is two hours_" said Weiss, then he rang off. Jack shook his head at the unnecessary speed, turned the phone off and put it back in his pocket. Sometimes he doubted that he'd ever been that age, really...

_Virginia, USA_

Seraphine Nagel was a beautiful woman, she knew it and used the fact to her advantage. She was as physically dangerous as they came, she knew that too and used it to her advantage. She was also a very highly trained and exceptionally capable Assassin and Intelligence Agent who had been using all of her skills and knowledge for desired purpose over the past eighteen years. Again, she used all of these facts to her advantage.

At the current moment in time she was in a car park in the pouring rain, beneath deep, dark clouds that threatened storms and gales, standing outside the hospital Alex Conklin and Morris Panov had been taken to. She was using every skill at her disposal to make people think nothing of either her presence or the fact that, wearing a pair of tight blue jeans, a pale cream t-shirt and solid dark-brown cowboy boots, she had no place standing where she was.

She was helped by the fact that her soaked clothes did a great deal to highlight her curves and the long, smooth lines of her body. It distracted people from her slim frame, lean and muscular, physically powerful if one just looked close enough-which most, dazzled by what was so evidently on offer, so rarely did. The rain running down her face highlighted her aristocratic beauty, which she knew drew almost all on, gifting her with the allure of the unobtainable "Class" difference people would work so hard to reach for and obtain.

She'd needed a distraction to make sure nobody wondered who she was or why she was standing still and silent out in the rain, so she'd decided on herself. It was the revenge of a beautiful woman, she liked to think. People so often thought a beautiful woman could never be smart as well-or imagined it, at least-that the fact the woman in question might be five times as smart and capable as the next man in the room never ultimately occurred to most. The fact it could backfire on her was something she was prepared for, too.

Four Police Outriders on motorcycles, a leading car with flashing lights, a siren and blacked-out windows and at least four armed DHS Agents ready to go inside the car surrounded a specially commissioned ambulance in front of the hospitals main entrance. She knew it was there to move Conklin and Panov, Conklin still had plenty of secrets hidden away and Panov, as a former Psychologist for the CIA, knew far too much for any of it to even possibly be allowed to "leak" out. Her Contact had been clear about that...

He'd also been clear that a Military escort under Orders from the Pentagon which originated at Langley would take over escort duty once the convoy hit the freeway, since the powers that be had no wish to spook people if it could be avoided. Conklin and Panov were being moved, under guard, to a Military Hospital for security reasons, as soon as was possible and feasible. Unless she wanted to try her luck against National Guard troops with military gear and weapons, she needed to act before that happened. So she had.

All they thought of her as was some silly young woman who should have known better, she knew. Which meant she had one chance, just one, to get this right. At least with her Chameleon Circuit functioning they'd never get a clear shot of her face or any other part of her. That, combined with the terrible weather, went a long way to making sure she'd never be ID'ed for this...

She watched Conklin, connected to a mass of wires, tubes and other medical instruments, being wheeled out on a stretcher, still Comatose, then lifted into the ambulance, accompanied by a distinctly unhappy looking Doctor. Panov, barely mobile, slowly and carefully made his way to the ambulance, then had to be helped aboard. The doors swung shut behind him, the engines of all of the vehicles started to roar as they began to move-she acted.

A grenade went under the engine of the ambulance, another under the escorting car. Her gun, concealed under her t-shirt behind her back, came free and she dropped both Outriders with a shot each, deadeye heart shots. She'd adjusted the fuses on both grenades so in less than five seconds, even as the fastest responding Agent in the car kicked his door open, it was already too late.

The car was lacerated by the grenade, thin underside being shredded by shrapnel which tore apart the doors and roof, shattering glass in all directions as the blast came from the inside out. A brief shriek echoed before indistinct figures were thrown around inside the car and left trail of deep, dark bloody red everywhere even as they fell. Ten seconds after that the damaged and leaking fuel tank was touched off by a spark from damaged electronics and a fireball engulfed the car briefly, before receding into the front half alone. All of the bodies were ablaze, though, which could only help her mission.

The ambulance weighed more than the car did, but wasn't as steady on it's wheels. The explosion flipped it onto it's side with a shriek of shredded, tortured metal and shattering glass, the driver falling half out of the cab before the falling glass nearly cut him to pieces. The engine cut out, but the vehicle didn't burn.

She approached and kicked the back doors open to make sure, confirming the kills. Conklin was lying at an impossible angle, his back clearly broken, a shard of glass deep in his throat, his skin blue-grey. He was dead. The Doctor had lost both legs below the knee to the grenade explosion, he'd died staring at the bloody stumps, the look of horror was still on his face.

Panov...was looking straight at her with his one functioning eye. He was far too pale and clutching at his chest with both hands. Internal injuries, internal bleeding, for an already-wounded old man it was more than enough. He was dead, the fact he was still breathing was just a distraction.

"...Why...?" Panov managed, his breathing terribly laboured, blood appearing in his mouth and running out over his lips. She didn't care who he was or what he thought of her, but that was no reason to be impolite. So she shot him right between the eyes.

"Because" she replied, standing clear of the ambulance. She pulled out a box of matches, lit and tossed one at the slowly-spreading pool of fuel that would soon have connected with the burning car anyway, then turned and jogged away, before slowing to a steady stride once she was clear. The second explosion smashed more windows and drove more would-be investigators and helpers back into the hospital, cleaning up the scene of crime and removing any evidence as it did.

Even as she passed out of sight of the hospital, headed for her rental car-under a false name and ID of course-she found herself humming along to the tune "The Star-Spangled Banner", the most American piece of music she knew. She wondered whether or not this was a reaction to the fact she seemed to be working for an American now?

Probably, at least it was better than the anthem tune her old tutors in the USSR had spent days forcing her to learn until the day she left them behind forever. Those people were so wrapped up in doing what they wanted to do and thought was necessary as opposed to actually doing anything which made a difference? She'd recognised just how pathetic they were even as a child. None of it changed the fact she could still recall every word of the song twenty odd years later...

/End of Chapter 32. All Reviews welcomed/.


	33. Chapter 33

For all disclaimers: see earlier parts.

All Reviews welcomed.

**The Last Day**

_Paris, 2002_

When the lights went off for the second time she hadn't been expecting it, even though the presence of an unknown enemy Agent should have informed her of the possibility. Of course, in those days she'd been...different in her approach to how she did things. It wouldn't happen now.

The distraction was just enough to slow her down and he took full advantage of it, not even stopping to catch his breath as he bolted to his feet and hit her with a flying tackle, his whole weight behind the strike. She was poised and ready for combat, not braced, on top of which he had at least twice her muscle and weight to throw around. It told immediately, as her feet left the floor and she slammed back-first down onto the ground.

The sheer force of the impact gave her a sharp enough shock to stun, but her highly-trained body responded automatically, rolled the knives still in her hands and moved to drive them into his back even as her legs scissored around him to use their proximity against him. He head butted her before she could stab him, though, then managed to stand even with her legs wrapped around him, his hands around her wrists as their muscles strained-then his fingers dug in _hard_.

Her teeth ground together so hard she nearly snapped more than one as she somehow held in a howl of pain. He'd crushed the tendons in her arms, or made a damned good try, regardless of which she knew she'd dropped both knives as a result of an involuntary spasm as he'd attacked her. She had leverage, though, so she used it and slammed a head butt into his throat with such force that he coughed up blood and sagged, choking.

She tightened her legs to the point that she would have broken the back of most, but his muscles tensed like steel bands and held her off. It didn't stop her effectively pinning his chest in such a way as to stop him from breathing, but he let go of her wrists and grabbed her throat with both hands to throttle her when she did. With his muscle she couldn't just buck him off or hope to outlast him, so she let go with her legs and directed a double-footed stamp on his groin.

He let out a startled grunt as his eyes went wide and he staggered, but his grip loosened enough that she was able to wrench free. She staggered, black spots of oxygen starvation flaring briefly in front of her eyes, went down on one knee and came back upright a second later. The man was just as slow as she was, though, clearly guarding his chest. Well, she did have exceptionally strong legs, she had to have done more damage than she'd thought. Good.

"_Monica_, why the Hell don't you recognise me?! We were only just together so recently that I still smell of that scent you use!" snapped the man, still trying to get into her head with his nonsense-

_...Clever, strong hands ran through her hair, washing out shampoo with warm water as she deliberately leaned back into his muscular chest, letting her silken skin brush over and rub against his more worn, rougher mans skin with a feel of easy, sensual pleasure..._

She blinked as an impossibility ran across her minds eye, but her body didn't need her mind to fight and she ducked a punch automatically. Her weakened hands weren't up to much, but there was nothing wrong with her legs and she aimed a low-high-low combination at him. He expertly parried with forearm parries and a blocking hip-before a snapped kick broke his guard and struck home just under his ribs on the left side of his chest. She felt a rib crack as a sharp gasp came out of his mouth-then he landed an uppercut which catapulted her off of her feet and over the kitchen wall into the kitchen proper.

She jumped to her feet and tore the nearest drawer out of a cupboard before throwing it at him along with its concerts, rolling pins made of wood and steel cart wheeling in all directions. He dived out of the way, but it gave her time to dig out the cutlery drawer and fill her hands with lethal projectiles. He saw it coming, though, because his landing put him behind a solid chair even as a handful of sharp steel cutlery dug into the floor where he would have been if he'd stopped even a breath sooner. Then he picked up the chair and threw it at her.

She dived flat and it went over her head before coming crashing down, but he followed up right behind it and came at her with a club fashioned from a wooden table leg torn free with his bare hands. She rolled clear of his first strike, but the second numbed her left shoulder even as she came to her feet, staggering her again. She grabbed the first thing to hand and punched him in the face with it-a metal tray, as it turned out, which hit him so hard the tray actually warped on contact.

He went down on one knee and she kicked him high in the chest before he recovered enough to block, dropping him onto his back while the back of his head hit the floor with an almighty thud that made his eyes roll almost shut. Recognising the fact he had to have suffered a Concussion at best from such an impact she moved to finish him off, intending to crush his throat with her foot while he lay helpless-but instead, she almost lay down on top of him and kissed him full on the lips-

_...Hot lips pressed hard against hers even as tongues duelled for dominance inside mouths. His hard, solid body pressed against her curved one so intimately that she could taste as much as feel and see every line of his fine form. He was every bit as skilled a lover as she'd imagined he might be, even allowed herself to fantasise about, which spoke for itself. She had a VERY vivid imagination..._

"...Dios Mio, what did you say your name was again?" she asked, half-remembered fingers tracing all over her, every line of her body, for a long, long moment. Before she realised that she'd spoken in Italian, a language that was her third choice after Russian and English...

_LA, 2007, one day ago_

As Monica Messolina knocked back her Gin and Tonic with a trace of a smile, sitting on a chair at a singles table inside a hotel bar which had no name she cared to remember, she recalled again a defining moment in her life. How odd and event that had been, come to think of it, all these years later? She had first of all met David Webb and _then_ Jason Bourne, while David Webb had first met Monica Messolina and then Jason Bourne had met Talia.

It had been the beginning of the end for her as an Agent under the authority of anyone and anything except her own free will. From the first moment that either identity had recalled memories of any sort that did not originate _with_ that identity, her Conditioning and Programming had begun to break down, the mechanisms concealed in her mind malfunctioning worse and worse until it _all_ collapsed like a house of cards. A year was all it had taken after that, until she'd finally remembered _everything_ about herself and what she'd done, what they'd had her do.

The transition to become a truly independent individual with her own personality, free will and choices had been considerably less than pleasant as fourteen years of manipulation, Conditioning, Programming, Brainwashing and training suddenly broke down utterly. The break had left her with over a decades worth of memories that "Monica" wasn't built to be able to accept and cope with. "Talia", though, was, so what had come out of the merging of the two had Created something else again, some_one_, who could make the best of both worlds and enjoy doing so.

Her Satellite Phone rang, so she checked the number and actually did smile. That drew the eye of every man in sight and some of the women, not that she cared. "Yes?" she asked, raising the phone to her ear.

"_It's me, the Tests are complete_" came Sark 's smooth voice, his British accent as distinctive as ever. She did wonder why he used it, sometimes, he could adopt any accent with ease. Presumably being sent to a Private School there as a Scion of the Romanov family had left its mark deeper than she would have expected. Of course, there was a small but important matter to consider, the fact that after Julian Lazarey's father had effectively abandoned him almost fifteen years ago as his obsession with Rambaldi consumed him. That fact had left the child who would one day become Sark living on the streets until he'd made his own way off, starting at fourteen years of age...

"Good. So, am I safe to assume the result was as expected?" she replied.

"_You are. The Helix has been used on the remains before death, it is without question. The shooter put down a Clone, as suspected_" said Sark . He sounded pleased with himself and, surprisingly, disturbed. She didn't bother to point that out, though, few people ever got to know Sark well enough to read his moods and he didn't appreciate it-with good reason. _She_ only knew him that well because he'd once spent considerable time with Selene.

"So the Raven's Protégé survives, I fail to be surprised. Good work, usual rates. She'll be in touch when it's time. Goodbye" said Monica, then she hung up. Moments later, she started chuckling softly...

/End of Chapter 33. All Reviews welcomed./


	34. Chapter 34

For all disclaimers: See earlier Parts.

All Reviews welcomed.

**The Last Day**

_Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 2007, one day ago_

Eric Weiss managed to restrain his urge to run into Nadia's Infirmary room somehow, despite the state he was in given news of her injuries he'd received on the way from APO. Instead, he managed a steady but quick stride through the corridors, even as staff bustled past him, Marine guards strode around looking very angry while clutching M16's so hard their knuckles were white and various officials shouted out names and questions. They even shouted out answers, occasionally.

Part of what slowed him down was a professionals thinking. No matter what state Nadia was in, even if he was in love with her-and he had little doubt left to him that he was-he couldn't improve her state of health by running in and hugging her tightly in both arms to be sure she was alive. It would be far more useful, for the two of them, if he was cool and composed and caring when he got in there. Also, there was Jack Bristow to consider, quite possibly the most terrifying man Eric knew, even including Sloane.

Sloane could make your skin crawl with a smile and knew what you were thinking just by meeting your eyes, he had no conscience and was capable of anything to get the job done. The one weak point he had was Nadia herself, his daughter-but that just made it worse, because given what Sloane would do to someone just because they'd crossed him, let alone made him really angry with them? Eric didn't have the imagination to even contemplate what might happen to someone who made both Sloane and Nadia angry for the same reason.

Jack Bristow, though... The man just never _smiled_. His eyes were so cold it was like locking eyes with the dead, while his grip was so strong Eric half expected to feel and hear his fingers snapping every time they shook hands. The older man didn't so much argue as make a point and wait for others to realise he was right. He did it easily because he was far more intelligent than anyone in the team bar maybe Sloane and, perhaps, Sydney, a fact people sometimes forgot outside of the APO team. He was so solid, focused and dedicated that even getting in his way, let alone changing his mind, was akin to trying to stop the advance of a Glacier with a smile and the word "Please". Things in his path either got out of his way or he removed them, there was no third option.

Eric had learnt the first time they'd met to follow the older mans Orders-and it hadn't taken much longer for him to realise that that the older man hadn't survived most of four decades with the CIA through luck. Jack Bristow didn't follow any rules, he wrote them out as he went along-except where Sydney was concerned. If anyone hurt Sydney, Eric didn't doubt that Jack would kill them and very likely erase all signs of them from the Earth for good measure. With Sydney, all bets were off-and, since he often ended up working with Sydney, Eric was very often well aware that Jack Bristow was watching all the time, even if he couldn't be seen or heard...

When he entered the Infirmary room and found Nadia awake and chatting to Jack, who had pulled up a chair next to the bed so that they could face each other properly, he almost forgot it all, though, just on seeing the smile that Nadia directed at him when she saw him arriving. Oh, there was no doubt about it now, he was whipped. For Nadia Santos? He might just risk setting Jack off...

"Nadia! Your alright!" said Eric, saying the first halfway intelligent thing that came into his mind. By the lack of expression on Jack's face, they might as well have been discussing the weather-but he knew he'd have been bounced out of the door, literally, on his head if necessary, if he'd said the wrong thing. Nadia, though, smiled brilliantly at him.

"Eric, you're here! Come on over and hold me a minute" replied Nadia, both of them comfortable using each others real names since Jack Bristow's simple presence made sure nobody would ever hear what they said except in a debriefing. The older Agent just arranged that, wherever he was, somehow, every time.

He almost jogged over, taking in the numerous knocks and small cuts-and not so small-all over Nadia as he went. A section of hair had been shaved off around what looked like a bullet wound and stitches had been applied, still slightly visible under an adhesive bandage. Despite that, though, Nadia was bright-eyed and clear headed, quite evidently, even laughing aloud as she sat up to hug him back. He was careful, of course, but she responded by hugging him so tight that she winded him.

"Eric, I've been hurt far worse than this, treat me like a Porcelain Doll and I _will_ hit you. So we're clear? I have a Concussion, but my thick head stopped the bullet before it did any real damage. I have cuts and bruises all over my body, but nothing serious and no broken bones. I suffered a heart attack, but I'm young, fit and healthy, given time to heal and recover I'll be fine. Understand?" Nadia asked, almost playfully.

"Absolutely, hold back on the kink for a while" he replied with a smirk, just to see Nadia's expression when he said it. He wasn't disappointed, the expression on Nadia's face was somewhere between shock, disbelief, fury and intrigue, while her darker skin tone did nothing to hide a deep blush. She didn't like anything more kinky than tying him to the bed, of course, but Jack wouldn't know that...

Jack, of course, didn't even blink, before he took Nadia's hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Then he shut the two of them up with just a look, although Nadia seemed happy to stop talking, making Eric think she was hurt worse than she was letting on and was covering for it with energy and humour.

Then it occurred to him that Jack would know the extent of her injuries for certain, where he wouldn't, since most medical jargon was gibberish to him. But Jack hadn't said a word or moved a muscle, only moved to reassure Nadia when she needed it... Well, maybe she saw Jack as the kind of authority figure she wanted rather than the one she had? He wouldn't wish Arvin Sloane on his worst enemy as a relation, let alone a parent.

"If the two of you are finished" said Jack, his cool voice making clear that they were whether they knew it or not, "We have serious matters to discuss. May I begin?" he continued, the fact that he was going to regardless filling the room like a gas that sucked all other sound out. Jack Bristow never needed to make his point twice.

_LA_

Talia pulled up outside the hotel, thoughtfully parking near the edge of the surrounding wall, near where a slim figure was wearing a loose-fitting trench coat and ragged trousers that barely covered any part of her decently was waiting while not being obvious about it. A close inspection would make it evident that the stains and muck on the coat and trousers weren't just from food, mud and rough living, it would reveal stains of a distinctive colouring that could only have one source-_inside_ the human body.

It was a simple fact, however, that nobody paid any real attention to what they didn't want to see-and, in this part of Los Angeles, nobody saw the faceless on the street. The Police were there for a reason and that was that.

The moment she stopped she opened the passenger door, then the figure hurried over and jumped into the passenger seat, slamming shut the door. A few seconds later, even as the car began to move again, the figure-a revolted looking Selene-tore off what few clothes she'd been wearing and threw them out of a half-open window. Then she put her elbows on her knees, put her head in her hands and sighed the sigh of the dead weary.

"Resurrection take it out of you again?" Talia asked, dryly, as Selene quickly shut the door and did her best to sit still. Her hands kept shifting, however, as though she was using sheer force of will to prevent herself from doing something she didn't want to do and was barely succeeding.

"Do NOT start, I think I have fleas and I'd forgotten how itchy blood can be when it dries right onto your skin. On top of which I have a headache supplied by Satan himself on the off chance dying of gunshot wound and blood loss wasn't painful enough. Then there's this" replied Selene, raising her head just enough to look Talia in the eyes. Talia frowned.

"Is that permanent this time? I thought you said it was always temporary when some part of you changed after an Event?" asked Talia, looking slightly unsure of herself. Unsurprisingly, Selene couldn't help but think, even SHE was breaking new ground with her ongoing Metamorphosis.

"I have no idea. Lets get out of here and I'll try to work it out, though, alright?" she replied, putting her head back in her hands. Talia just nodded and sped up, another problem added to the list.

_Langley_

Director Hayden Chase was seriously considering having a bed moved into her office so that she could actually get some rest when she got the call. Five minutes after she got the call she was in the CIA Morgue, an hour and a half after that the bodies were rolled in as she waited impatiently.

When she saw what was left of Morris Panov, with his torn-up lacerated body with a gunshot wound between the eyes, she ground her teeth so hard. The man had once been a major CIA Asset and one of the ten best Psychologists in the world, he had done work for the CIA going back to the mid sixties and was-_had_ been-still on the books as a Consultant. The secrets he'd known and kept for decades, without fail, could have finished the Agency as a whole if he'd been willing to discuss even a tenth of them. All it would have taken was one misplaced word in the wrong ear, in fact...

He'd Treated HER, back in the early 90's, before he'd officially retired, when she'd had an Operation go very, very bad on her. She'd been shot and fallen twenty feet off a bridge into a river after her whole team had been taken out in a running firefight with a Terrorist Cell in a remote area of Poland. Get in, get faces and names, get out, simple-if the Terrorists hadn't had a helicopter doing Overwatch the CIA hadn't known about. Its guns had taken down half the team before they could find cover, pursuing Terrorists had done the rest.

She'd been dragged a mile downstream through freezing water, scraped over rocks which tore through skin and flesh and snapped bone, bled almost to death from a gunshot wound in the chest which had clipped a lung and, as it turned out, lost her weapons and gear after she passed out twice before washing up by the side of the river. Freak luck had saved her life, she'd had nothing to do with it, consciously or unconsciously.

It had taken her an hour to haul herself out of the water, with blood loss combining with freezing water to sap what little strength she had left. Then she'd rolled over onto her back, closed her and eyes and gone to sleep, waiting to die, hoping she wouldn't wake after being forced to watch all her friends die. She'd forgotten the Beacon sewn into her uniform, though, so she'd been in a hospital in Germany before she'd regained consciousness and found out she'd been in a Coma for three days, bleeding and broken inside and out.

Three months of Medical Leave, regular full physical and mental batteries, physical and psychological tests of every kind-and she'd been left so Depressed at the end of it there had been talk of checking her into a Psychiatric Ward. One old man had saved her with words, not actions, no fanfare or guarantees eh couldn't keep, just words: Panov. In the end, she'd come out of it stronger, his help had eventually led her to become the woman she was today.

She'd told him to call her if he ever needed something, no matter who or what, the time and place were irrelevant, she'd promised him she'd be there for him-and she'd never been one to give her word lightly. But running the CIA had her _literally_ running in all directions at all times just to keep up, at the very least. She had responsibilities... and so she'd let the old man down, turned him over to the FBI and arranged for him to be delivered to a CIA Safe house when she should have sent a Sweeper Team to scoop him up and get him somewhere _really _safe. Hell, she should have gone herself...

But she hadn't, she'd failed him, now the shattered, bloody corpse of the old man was lying on a stretcher in front of her, cold and dead. She couldn't help him any longer, she couldn't do anything which had meaning for him any longer...nothing except find out who did this and Terminate with Extreme Prejudice, that was. Which she most certainly _would_ do.

The second man, though, Alex Conklin... With him dead, she was going to have to make calls to people in Washington, among other places. At least one of those people would most likely react by getting to Langley as fast as he could just so he could shoot her in the head, but he wasn't the one she was really afraid of. No, the old man had one real friend left in Langley who would shake the whole world just to hear it rattle then break it into small pieces until he found who and what he was looking for.

_Jack Bristow_, a man who would go to any lengths to achieve his objectives and go through anything and anyone who got in his way. He'd use all means at his disposal and not blink at leaving a trail of bodies behind him because there wouldn't be any evidence or Witnesses to worry about. Once he was through with someone who made him really, _really_ angry? She'd heard Sloane say that you could only recognise what was left if you'd known the subject well before his or her death, since there would be no normal distinguishing marks left after Jack was done.

Conklin had been Jack's Mentor in the CIA before the old man had sought oblivion at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey every day of the week, sometimes more than once, after he'd put his closest friend-David Webb-through three years of hell to track down and kill the Jackal. Webb had survived, physically, but he'd come back with a shattered mind and memory, his identity as good as gone, the man he _had_ been dead. Conklin had lost a foot in Vietnam and kept going, but the loss of a friend had broken him.

It was CIA rumour that the two men had come to blows over Jack's "Wife", when the drunken Conklin had stormed in despite being Suspended and screamed in Jack's face that "Laura Bristow" was a liar and a Murderer, that his Protégé couldn't see the truth because he was so besotted. He'd raved and howled at Jack like a lunatic, called him stupid, blind and naïve-at which point Jack had punched him in the face and broken a chair over the old mans head before they'd been forcibly separated by other Agents.

Of course, Conklin had been right... But he'd been so drunk and clearly out of his kind for years by that point even his job at the CIA had been in serious question, let alone his judgement. Nobody had taken his rambling seriously, but they'd all forgotten that Conklin's incredible mind had been what had drawn him into the CIA in the first place. Forced off-duty with so much time to think and do little else but drink, he'd out-thought the entire CIA and found what they'd missed. Their arrogance had cost them twelve Agents and all of the data on Project Christmas, which Jack had shared with his Wife...

To Chase's mind for worse than that you had to bring up Aldrich Ames, who had spent years betraying the CIA and his country for booze, cigarettes and luxuries, apparently utterly regardless of the fact that what he was doing cost people their lives and more. She'd joined the CIA herself on the tail end of Ames crimes, but had never met the man. It was probably for the best, if she'd known what he was up to she'd have found him before the CIA and killed him herself. She'd have gone to the chair with a smile on her face...but that was then, this was now. Now, with Conklin dead, her ever-mounting list of problems to be dealt with had just seen a whole new subsection added.

Conklin had clearly been caught in an explosion before his death, his body was shattered, with bone and flesh exposed, skin missing and even charring evident. She couldn't tell precisely what had actually killed him, but didn't need to be told that he'd been assassinated. Men like Conklin and Panov didn't get to die in bed, but this? This was extreme. Whoever had killed them like this had either hated them or been following specific Orders...

"Doctor, when your done here I want detailed analysis of both these men's lives and deaths, most specifically how they died, in as great an amount of detail as you can arrange. The death of these two men does not leave this room without my express authorisation, those here are to make sure this is understood by all. These were two of ours, people, I want this _answered for_. Understood?" she snapped, her voice almost an angry hiss.

"Yes Ma'am" the four Agents, the Doctor and the Technician all responded, almost all together. Good, that meant they understood. She left then, so she wouldn't have to look at Panov's broken face and dead body any longer. Besides, she needed to update Sloane from a secure area.

_New York_

Central Station was a good place to go if you wanted to just think, David Webb had found, rather than out into the countryside. Maybe he was too used to the urban sprawl, maybe he was just used to being around people most of the time, but the constant flow of strangers back and forth, snatches of hurried conversation floating to his ears, massive variety of smells, constant movement... Somehow, it relaxed him, cleared his mind.

As it happened, Anna Neagley gained the same sense of freedom and peace from the same things he did. Or at least, he thought she did. He rarely found it difficult to read someone, but her...

The woman didn't do more than smile or frown occasionally, her expressions were put on her face by an act of Will rather than as a result of any kind of honest emotion. Her eyes were so shuttered it was like trying to look through Blackout curtains backed by steel doors that were secured with bolts on the inside. Her body was so still when she wasn't moving he'd honestly not been completely sure she was even breathing the first time.

_He'd_ never had the kind of self-control and self-discipline she was demonstrating, such focus that just because she wanted to sit still she wasn't moving at all except for vital functions like breathing. Trying to read even her body language was a dead end, all he could tell from her was that she was alive-and that she was well aware what a close examination of a body and beauty like hers did, a flicker of a smile crossing her face, never touching her eyes, as she noted him almost staring at her.

What could produce that kind of focus, though? What drove _anyone_ to reach that level of self-discipline? He wasn't entirely sure she was sane, if he was being honest with himself. She'd almost physically witnessed the man she'd called her father for almost twenty years die, but hadn't even blinked. No wonder she was a Code 5, if her combat skills were anywhere close to her self control in level she was a _truly_ lethal individual.

"I first met Dad when I was fourteen years old, back in 86' I was a petty thief at the time, stealing what I could where I could and selling it on to make enough money to survive, any way I could. The one thing I wouldn't sell to get by was myself, which was a problem sometimes" she said, abruptly, sitting back in the cushioned steel chair as though opening a conversation like she had was the most normal thing in the world.

He didn't say a word, what could he say? He, of all people, knew about loss intimately. She wanted to tell him what she was talking about for a reason, it was best to let her do it and take it as it came. Marie, his Wife, had been doing the same for him for thirty years now, with his shattered memory still throwing up nightmares and flashes decades after the injury which had done the damage. Now, perhaps, he could return the favour.

"The reason why was my "father" in Ethiopia, where I was born, was an angry bastard who could not handle the fact his Wife, my mother, wanted more than him and ran of to find it when I was three, in 75'. He beat me and my brother black and blue almost every day of my life for the next nine years, never allowed us out except to carry out jobs for him, starved us and forced us to stand upright facing walls away from each other for hours. Then, in 84', he sold me as a Slave" said Anna, her expression not changing at all.

Webb swallowed, even sitting next to her and aware that she was talking about herself as though she was somebody, somewhere else. Why was she telling him this? He had a suspicion he hoped was wrong.

"I was brought to the USA and used as an exotic "Toy" by those who could afford it for a year, while they all tried to get me hooked on something which would make me more..._pliable_, shall we say. When I was thirteen, I strangled my latest "owner" with my bare hands, smashed a window to get out and outran his employees. I still had to make my way somehow, so I decided on things I was sure people didn't need. Bits of jewellery, shop goods, nick-knacks that people didn't really have a use for unless you had nothing better..." she continued, even as he watched her eyes slip closed.

"Then you met Cactus?" Webb asked, finally finding a way to join in the trip down memory lane. He got a slight nod in return, there was no other reaction.

"Then I met Cactus, when the old man I'd thought was asleep caught me with my hands in the cash box by shoving a shotgun in my face. I thought I was dead, but the first thing he said when he looked me in the eyes was "What's your name, kid?" and, well... He was the first person I'd ever met who really took the time to just sit down, sit with me and _listen_, actually hear me out, you know?" asked Anna, her voice actually going soft rather than flat for a moment.

"Oh, do I. I could tell you stories, but when he came to see me in hospital back in 78' after the Jackal Mission blew up in my face? That was when I knew he was a _real_ friend you could talk to and a man you could _trust_, you know?" he replied, softly. His memories of the event were far from flawless, of course, even though that had occurred weeks after the injury to his mind, the damage evidently long-term and severe enough to effect the creation of new memories. Thankfully, he'd recovered somewhat since.

"You know. He heard me out, told me that was no way to live or die, arranged for a lost girl to be Adopted by an ageing, lonely old man who'd never had any kids of his own, even though it so happened he'd Created all of the paperwork relating to me himself, then took me in and took care of me. Turned out I could do other things if I put my mind to it, but I had a real talent for violence. Joined up in 90', went to the Gulf as support, went on from there, seventeen years in now" she continued, opening her eyes again. This time the smile did reach her eyes.

"In 95' got sent on a UN mission to Ethiopia, tracked down both my "parents" and we had words, several. Doctor's said they might recover, given a few years" she said, a statement to which he didn't dare say anything.

"In 96' my brother finally managed to track me down, turned out he'd been forced to join up in the 84' Civil War in Ethiopia by our "father", but he'd kept at it and ended up a Mercenary, then he joined a Security Company which brought him to the USA. Seems someone in the unit thought we might be related with our looks and so he checked, the rest is history. He got blown to pieces in Chechnya in 98' when he trod on a Mine left over from the first Russian invasion, lost both legs and everything below the waist was lacerated. He died thirty seconds after the hit, best. He'd wanted me on-team and the paperwork had been in the system, I tore it all up after that" she said, very quietly.

"I see. So, you have no family left to you?" he said, just as quietly, well aware that the conversation had ended up exactly where he'd expected it would. She was more of a lost Soul than he ever had been, not something he said lightly.

"None. I also have no friends, a reputation as a professional killer second to none and a Black Ops File an inch thick covered in "Eyes Only" red stamps even the President can't release until a century after my death. I have so much blood on my hands Satan himself will welcome me home when I die with open arms and experience of Wetworks on every continent. There is no Sin I haven't committed for my country, there is almost nothing left I haven't done to someone or had done to me. Where it comes to family, I do not _have_ lines I don't cross. You understand?" she asked, finally shifting slightly to look him in the eyes.

"After thirty-seven years, Hell yes" he replied, sharply. She just raised an eyebrow and smiled, a genuine smile for once.

"Good. I knew you would, but you need to know why. The monsters out and it's not going back in the box ever again, David Webb. So, shall we? Bitch and bastard together, one last time?" she asked, raising her head and extending a hand out to him. He took it without hesitation.

"Hell yes" he said again, this time wearing a grin on his face. He was an old man now, but there was one thing left for him to do yet.

At that, she just chuckled...

/End of Chapter 34. All Reviews welcomed./


	35. Chapter 35

For all disclaimers: see earlier parts.

**The Last Day**

_Langley, Virginia, 1981_

Jack Bristow was not a happy man, although he wasn't quite sure why. He had a beautiful young Wife he loved very much, a happy daughter who he would do anything for just to see her smile one more time and a good home. He was a top agent for the CIA and was partnered with a man who was easily his equal, he knew that without any trace of ego or arrogance. He was simply one of the best at what he did and he did it very well indeed, that was what mattered.

He was respected by many of his colleagues, envied by some and feared by others, but these things were to be expected and he handled them as they came at him. He had little to no doubt that if he stayed with the CIA he would have a long, brilliant Career ahead of him, maybe even with the Directors chair at the end of it. But...did he want that? Was _that_ what was bothering him?

He'd been raised by his mother, a distant woman who had, despite her physical frailty, used her impressive mind to teach him what she could and try to make sure he didn't turn out like his father. She'd done a good job, he believed, before her mind had failed as a result of some wasting disease that destroyed her from the inside out. He'd been one of only six people at her funeral, which his father had not attended, if he was even still alive.

His only memory of his father was a faded childhood memory of him walking out after a shouting match with his mother. The man hadn't cared about his Wife or his infant son, so Jack didn't care about the man now he was an adult himself. He knew his fathers name, that was all he intended to learn of the man.

He'd spent some times considering his options after reviewing the available facts and, in the end, his decision had been simple. He would not leave his daughter alone and in need in this world under any circumstances while he could be there for her. If that meant resigning the CIA and getting a job in the private sector which let him be with his daughter at the end of each day, so be it. A large part of his Career with the CIA was Classified, but what wasn't would land him almost any job he could want. He'd find something.

He'd expected to feel better after reminding himself of his decision to never be or become his father, but he still felt uneasy. It was as though there was something bothering him he just couldn't quite put his finger on, as though it was at the very edge of his awareness and hadn't fully formed yet so he could perceive it. Or as though he was having trouble recognising something he already knew but didn't want to accept...?

His office was a black, square room with a grey carpet and blinds over the windows while a door with a glass top and wooden bottom locked out the rest of the office. A picture of President Reagan hung on the back wall atop all else, while a full-size flag of the USA was spread out across the wall above the CIA symbol.

He'd never been a man for undue sentimentality, so the only ornamentation he had was a picture of himself and his Wife, Laura, their arms around each other, with a grinning five year old Sydney standing between them, one of her parents hands on each shoulder, every bit the happy family as they all smiled and laughed. His partner, Arvin Sloane, had taken that picture during one of their family barbecues, with Sloane's own Wife, Emily, chuckling in the background, having stopped playing with young Sydney for long enough to let the photo be taken.

Emily would have made an excellent Mother, Jack had no doubt, which made it all the more sad that she wasn't one. Of course, after her Miscarriage in 77' Sloane had never fully recovered from the loss and Emily was almost afraid to try again. Would they one day have a child? Or more than one? He could only hope so, he could think of few people who more deserved the kind of happiness that only a child of your own could bring to you.

After all, he could only begin to count the number of ways that Sydney had enriched his life since the day she'd been born. He knew he'd be finding out new things he'd never have thought of every day for the rest of his life thanks to her...

His pleasant train of thought was abruptly derailed as he heard what seemed to be a dragging footstep echoing from outside his office, then a dark figure loomed outside his office-just before a fist pounded on his office door. "Jack!" bellowed a man's voice, so loudly Jack had no doubt he could be heard up and down the corridor. "JACK!" came the voice again.

Jack knew who the man was, he'd know the owner of that rough voice for eleven years, ever since he'd joined the CIA and been Mentored by the owner. Alex Conklin, the "Saint" of the CIA, who had a record second to none with a glittering Career going back to Korea. Of course, he'd changed a great deal of late...

Conklin opened the door with such force that he came close to breaking off the hinges, slamming the door into the wall. He lurched into the room, having to lift and thump down his prosthetic foot with a heavy thump as he did, staggering for a moment before straightening up. Conklin was in his early fifties, with black hair shot through with grey and skin carrying wrinkles that only age, wear and tear gave one. In thirty years with the CIA he'd seen and done things that Jack couldn't even imagine after a decade of service, but...

The bloodshot eyes, puffy red cheeks and increasing paunch were all results of Conklin's failing faculties and his growing addiction to alcohol. The man stank of alcohol in amounts that could kindly be described as unhealthy and, at worst, lethal. Jack knew why, too.

A single blown operation, a targeted Op specifically designed to deal with Carlos the Jackal, the Assassin, by creating a rival of such standing and apparent skill that the Jackal would be drawn out to deal with him-only the man, a Deep Undercover CIA Agent, would have killed him. It had been organised by a number of the old guard, with Conklin the Chief Agent inside the CIA, the chosen Agent Conklin's closest personal friend and a cold-blooded killer of the kind which came along once in a generation.

Conklin and the others had spent three whole _years_ manipulating elements of US intelligence, government and even diplomatic assets to arrange for the whole Op to succeed. Then the Jackal had gotten wind of what was going on and gotten to them first. Conklin and a now-Retired US General were the only survivors of the command and control focus, on top of which the Agent had been Critically wounded on the Op itself and was suffering from near-total Amnesia. The Agent had had full access to intelligence of Top Secret and above level and nobody knew if he would ever remember it all-or not.

The Operation had been codenamed "Treadstone" and it had nearly finished Conklin's Career in the end. Conklin had been investigated by the FBI and CIA Internal Affairs, the Senate Intelligence Committee had investigated Treadstone itself, for a while accusations of Treason had been floating around linked to Conklin. The list went on, but Conklin had told them all to go to Hell after discovering what had happened to his friend. He had then dodged the bullet by crawling into a bottle of whiskey and hadn't crawled back out again after three years.

In the end all charges had been dropped due to lack of evidence, but Jack knew a black mark now existed against Conklin's name he would never clear. It hadn't been enough to get him thrown out of the CIA, but now he was on borrowed time. Despite that, the drink still gave him enough courage to stick his nose in where it wasn't wanted. Jack had been the old man's Protégé once, now he just wished Conklin would go quietly for the good of the Agency itself. Cover-Up or not...

"I've had enough, Jack, your going to hear what I have to say whether you want to or not. So shut up and listen" said Conklin, almost snarling as he stomped over to Jack's desk and leaned over it towards him. Jack leaned back, to get away from the stink of alcohol as much as anything.

"Go on, Alex, what is it you have to say _this_ time?" Jack snapped back, carefully making sure that his face displayed nothing of what he was thinking. Keeping his face blank and his eyes empty had been a trick that he'd learnt early on in the CIA. People who got visibly scared, excited or just easily distraught didn't last long in the world of espionage. Weakness was a thing which got you killed.

"Laura Bristow is not that woman's real name, Jack. She says she's a Russian émigré yet she speaks it like a native and _still _speaks it like a native ten years after coming here. She moves around far too much for my liking and stays in hotels as though she's having an Affair but doesn't care if you know, because we both know she isn't. She meets odd people in strange places at even stranger times. She's even been seen in places she _really_ shouldn't have been" said Conklin, deliberately drawing out his explanation of what he was talking about.

"Jack, people are _dead_. There are too many questions about that woman and _you_ won't ask her for the answers. Well, _I_ will and the FBI will if it comes to it-" Conklin went on, only to be abruptly cut off as Jack stood up suddenly and slammed both hands down on his desk with such force the sound echoed.

"Alex, I'll tell you this _once_. Stay away from my Wife and me, or you'll wish the man you left behind got his hands on you _first_" Jack snarled out, grinding his teeth as he spoke. The look in Conklin's eyes told him what was coming a second before it happened.

"You...damn you, Jack, you..." said Conklin, slowly, furious. Then he hurdled the desk and tackled Jack full in the chest, sending the two of them staggering backwards as Jack fought to keep his balance.

Jack snapped a punch into Conklin's face and bloodied his nose, but Conklin slammed a vicious bone-cracking strike into Jacks left lower chest and almost dropped Jack in a wave of agony as a rib cracked. Jack used the angle of his shoulder and shoved off with all his strength, slamming Conklin into the desk, but Conklin threw it back at him and dragged Jack's head down into a powerful head butt as Jack was thrown off-balance by the movement. Jack saw stars and tasted blood, but before his eyes cleared Conklin threw him off.

A kidney punch put Jack on his knees before he could block or dodge, then a sharp uppercut put him on his back, too stunned to move. His vision cleared more slowly than it should have-and that was when he saw Conklin, breathing hard, standing over him, point of his stick up against Jack's throat. Conklin was literally snarling in anger, lips drawn back from his teeth.

"You have NO idea what your talking about, Jack, none, at all. I'm trying to _help_ you and you throw the biggest failure in my _life_ in my face?! Go to Hell" said Conklin, breathing heavily, his face flushed red with anger now.

"Never forget this, Jack: I _made_ you and I can _unmake_ you, piece by piece if I have to. If you EVER throw David in my face like that again you'll spend the rest of your life in the gutter wondering just how it came to this after I'm through with you. But if your not willing to listen and learn, I'll leave you to your own mistakes. It's all on you now, Jack. I hope you like the taste" said Conklin, with a sneer, then he turned and limped out of the office, slamming the door behind him with such force that Jack half-expected the glass to crack or even break.

Jack stood up slowly and unsteadily, his legs weak. In a way, it was good to see that the old man hadn't lost any of his fire despite loosing his foot in Vietnam, even after everything, but it wasn't going to be enough to save him. He was wrong, an alcoholic has-been seeing ghosts where there were none. That was all there was to it...Right?

Right...?

_American Embassy, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 2007, one day ago_

Jack Bristow grunted as he woke up, suddenly dragged out of a bad memory that had been replaying through his mind in his sleep to find himself in a chair still by Nadia's bedside. Nadia, still recovering from the attack, had fallen asleep again and, to his surprise, one of her hands held one of his. He knew young women well enough, after Sydney, to know Nadia was holding his hand because, somehow, she trusted him to keep her safe from whatever scared her, or whoever was trying to kill her.

He'd once promised Sloane that he'd leave Nadia, Sloane's daughter, a broken, empty husk knowing nothing but pain by the side of a road in North Africa without even a name of her own. All for everything Sloane, his ex-partner in the CIA, had done to Sydney since she had been recruited into SD-6 at the age of 19. Since then he'd physically met and gotten to know Nadia, so had Sydney . Now?

Doing anything to deliberately hurt Nadia now would have taken him across a line that would have ended with his gun in his mouth. She was as much a child of his now as Sydney was, not least because Sydney, having finally found a Sister, family, so many years after her mother betrayed them both totally, had taken to Nadia as though the younger woman was the missing piece of her heart. Nadia had even told him, privately, that she would prefer it if he, Jack Bristow, was her father, since she knew she could trust him. She didn't, by implication, trust Sloane...

His face became grimmer than usual as he recalled the end result of the unconditional trust he'd had in his "Wife", Laura Bristow, who had gone back to Russia and her masters and the truth of who she was-Irina Derevko, KGB Agent-the moment she was Ordered to, without hesitation. During the ten years they'd been married she'd used him and the information he shared with her to kill twelve CIA Agents and get away with it clean, before she'd escaped once and for all. She'd left him and their daughter behind as though they were nothing, a fact he very simply could not forgive. Family was, in the end, all you truly had.

Three months after his confrontation with Conklin in his office Laura Bristow had "died" and he'd almost fallen apart, unable to take in the fact his Wife's life had ended so abruptly, without any meaning or sense, with no chance for any goodbyes. The next day the FBI had knocked on the door first thing in the morning and placed him under arrest, barely giving him time to arrange a Nanny for Sydney before dragging him off in chains. Then he'd had the charges read out to him, Treason, Espionage, Terrorism, Mass-Murder...

He'd been locked up in Solitary Confinement in a maximum-security jail for six months while they investigated every aspect of his life, professional and personal. He'd been left in Solitary because he was considered such a risk to National Security-and because, in his state of mind with his training, he was likely to kill anyone who even spoke to him as he tried to escape from the living nightmare his life had become.

After he was cleared and released the man he was had never gone home. He'd suffered through a breakdown and fallen deeply into Depression, started drinking himself to sleep and begun taking far too many pills to cope. If it hadn't been for Emily Sloane doing a better job of looking after Sydney than he managed in almost thirty years of trying since, with Sloane's help-as much as he wanted to deny and forget all about that-he didn't want to even imagine what could have happened to his daughter.

Eventually, three months after his release from prison, he'd finally managed to pull himself together and stopped waking up just to have a drink so he'd never wake up sober. Then he'd stopped drinking altogether, after which he'd stopped taking the pills and drawn a line under it all, reclaiming his life and mind from what his "Wife" had done to him. The experience had turned him into the man he was now, but sometimes he still wasn't sure if he'd ever be free of the woman until she was dead.

Every time they met since he'd discovered she was still alive, she just had to look at him _that_ way and he found his heart accelerating, just like old times. Even after almost thirty years she could still push every one of his buttons without trying... although, of course, the fact he would never kill his daughters mother-except to protect Sydney _from_ her mother-helped there. Now she was _really_ dead, he'd had to finally do it to save Sydney 's life. Why, then, did he think it hadn't been the right thing to do...?

"_Papa_?" asked Nadia, suddenly, drawing him out of his own mind for a second as she half-awoke to the various pains her body was currently suffering from. He didn't hesitate, here he _did_ know what to do. He patted her hand and stroked her hair back, smoothing it and trying to ignore the silky feeling of her curls under the rough skin of his hand. He was attracted to her, he knew that, but he was having trouble deciding whether or not she would be better served having him as a father-figure or as...well, something else.

She relaxed and went back to sleep, having never released his hand. He felt a rare smile cross his face, although a thought crossed his mind at the same time.

Sydney had found herself caught up in Rambaldi's ancient Plots, Plans and Works how many times over the past thirteen years since she'd been involved in the world of espionage by Sloane in 94'? She was Rambaldi's Chosen One and, as time went on, it increasingly became clear to him that the title came with a steep personal price tag that could end up with her dead-although not while he was alive.

Nadia was The Passenger, another of Rambaldi's Chosen, a fact that had nearly cost her both her sanity and her life following her first encounter with her own father. She was younger than Sydney, her Sister, but Jack knew she'd grown up rough on the streets of Argentina after being dumped in an Orphanage there by William Vaughn, of all people. Her Background check had documented that much. The Sisters had been living through rough times for almost the same amount of time, facing similar dangers, although Sydney had been the one facing lethal threats far more often.

It didn't take away from the fact that, it seemed, both of Rambaldi's Chosen were cursed to live in interesting times and fulfil his Prophecies, regardless of choice or free will-if either woman truly had that. Much as he might try, he knew that he could never protect them both. If he had to choose, he would always choose Sydney. But could either woman ever be truly protected from a _thing_ like Rambaldi? Even after 500 years...?

/End of Chapter 35. All Reviews welcomed./


	36. Chapter 36

For all disclaimers: see earlier Parts.

All Reviews welcomed.

**The Last Day**

_Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, 2007, one day ago_

Eric Weiss had found a soft drinks machine and was buying himself a can of Coke when he first realised that something was wrong. He was a very observant man, all good CIA Agents had to be, but some things he still had to learn not to take for granted-and some of those could get you killed. Live and learn, he would later say, which was all he _could_ say.

Jack had informed them that a CIA-Sanctioned jet was sitting at the international airport ready and waiting for him, Nadia and Weiss. That had made Eric call his own pilot and Order him to return to the USA immediately, speeded up by the fact that Director Chase had personally authorised Jack's flight.

Jack would have left the day before, when the jet had arrived, but he'd seen the fighting in the streets and checked in with the Embassy first. It had turned out to be a good idea since Nadia was in the Infirmary and Dixon was dead by the time he reached the building on foot, so he'd immediately contacted Sloane and filled the APO Director in, which had gotten Weiss to Vietnam as fast as a plane could be arranged.

Oddly, Jack wouldn't fill them in on what had happened to him and where he'd disappeared to so abruptly, all he would say was that he had received critical new Intel he needed to reach Sloane with in APO as soon as possible since nowhere else was completely safe. He wouldn't even hint at what it was-but Weiss could appreciate that much.

Nadia was so battered that she could barely get out of bed if her life depended on it, tough and strong as she was, right now she'd be relatively easy to break, while Weiss knew he was far from the kind of tough Vaughn was. Vaughn wouldn't break under most forms of interrogation, while Sydney literally _couldn't_ from what she'd told him about her Fathers programming of her using Project: Christmas. Weiss could take a lot, but he would break if enough pain was applied, he knew that. He was the most "normal" of the APO team and, somehow, the weakest despite, or maybe because, of that. What did that say about the others? About _him_?

If Jack Bristow thought Intel was so important he wouldn't even speak of it out loud, in Jack's head was the best place for it. Jack, he didn't doubt, would never crack, the man had broken in a way which couldn't be fixed decades ago and been left..._different_ by it, somehow. Just to be sure, the older man would die laughing just for the Hell of it if someone actually didn't realise that. In the same way he was capable of anything to get the job done, Jack was capable of anything to keep his silence.

In the end, of course, Jack's only weakness was Sydney-and he would sell his Soul to the dirtiest, nastiest scum ever seen on the planet to keep her safe, kill his way across the world and burn everything he believed in and ever had to protect her. The difference between Jack and Sloane was, though, Weiss suspected that Sloane would, ultimately, choose Rambaldi over Nadia if it ever truly came to one or the other, life or death. Sloane was the most corrupt man Weiss had ever met, no matter even Nadia claimed to believe he had reformed, or was trying to.

None of what was running through his mind should have distracted him to the point it actually took thirty seconds for him to notice what was wrong, however. Even if he was distracted by Jack Bristow's presence, let alone by Nadia's injuries. Thinking about his personal life in a place he could not guarantee was safe would get him killed, he knew better-but he could never have imagined what happened next.

His first sense of something being wrong was an itch down his back, as though he knew something was wrong but couldn't quite put his finger on it and his instincts were trying to warn him. That made him consider just how he could be in danger inside the US Embassy, which made him consider that Nadia would be too, which sharpened up his thinking fast. He ran through a checklist, starting with the basics.

Doors and windows? Secured, bulletproof. Roof? Climbing in from atop the roof would require you to get past the Marines and Embassy Security on duty at the perimeter wall and inside, even a glimpse would get you shot with the high alert status after the early attack. Attack from below? Same problem, under the circumstances the Marines and security guards would shoot first and investigate later. So what was it?

He cracked open the Coke can, sipped at it-then shrugged and glugged it all back in deep swallows. He'd had a long day, he could use the Caffeine boost to keep him awake and alert... It clicked, even though he'd only glimpsed what had warned him as he left the room and walked down the corridor. He looked around again, looked closely-the CCTV alert light was off, even though the cameras were moving. The system was active but nothing was being recorded.

_Shit_. There was only reason that something like that could have happened, it could only be deliberate. He looked around at another CCTV camera at the other end of the corridor-it was off too, even though the camera was still mobile. He dropped the can on the floor with a deliberate clatter and reached under his jacket for his weapon while walking towards a staff phone, even as he ran through his mind that it had been a minimum of ten minutes since he'd seen or heard staff in the Embassy moving around.

He dialled Security, the phone rang once and was picked up. "Hi, this is Eric West, Deputy Advisor of the State Department team that flew in yesterday? I'm just calling in to check that your keeping a close eye on Helena Santini?" he said, the best Cover he'd been able to come up with in the time he'd had to work in.

"_We have complete coverage of the Infirmary floor, Mr. West. If anything gets in there without our knowing it and taping it move just before we Arrest it and lock it away in a deep, dark hole in the ground for the next ten years it would have to be a subsonic bullet at least. Marines will be there thirty seconds after the call if anything SHOULD happen. Remain calm, you are completely secure there_" came back a mans voice, before the phone went dead. Weiss stared at it for a long moment, then slammed it down.

He walked so quickly to Nadia's room that he came close to breaking into a jog, even though he was trying to be discrete. He put his hand on his weapon and flicked off the Safety as he did, ready to start shooting if it came to it. Jack and Nadia looked up at him sharply as he hurried through the doors, but Jack took in his hand on his gun and the expression on his face first.

"Report" said Jack, without even stopping to ask what had Weiss worried. Of course he wouldn't, Weiss thought, the older man treated every potentially harmful situation as life or death and expected everyone else to do the same, or they would answer to him. He'd once thought that kind of paranoid approach would drive you crazy, but then he'd started moving in the same circles Jack did after joining APO. Now, he looked at Jack as an example of how to go in hard and come out, more or less intact, the other side.

Sure, the older man was one cold bastard and a killer capable of anything to get the job done. But, he had a daughter he cared for a great deal who cared for him at least as much, was alive after over thirty years on the job with everything he had started out with minus, maybe, a chunk of his sanity and never failed. If that was the price to be paid for survival and success, Weiss thought he could end up like that one day. Whether that would be a bad thing or not, he honestly wasn't sure...

"The CCTV is functioning, but not recording, I suspect across this whole floor. There is nobody in sight and I can't see even a suggestion of human presence on this floor, beyond us. I just called Security and they told me they have both eyes on this floor, tight. Something's wrong" said Weiss, getting the words out quickly to avoid Jack staring at him for too long. Jack paused, then nodded.

"We're leaving for the airport, now. Nadia, are your clothes in this room?" asked Jack, rising to his feet.

"No, my clothes were ruined, they burnt them. The best they have in here is a robe and slippers for the walking wounded to move around in" replied Nadia, shaking her head even as she pulled back the blankets and put her feet on the floor. She winced at the contact, even though she tried to hide it-Weiss knew her well enough to see that. So, he was sure, did Jack.

"There will be clothes on the plane, we'll make do. Weiss, get her dressed, I'll check our security here" said Jack, striding out of the room even as he spoke. Weiss just nodded and opened the cupboard to reveal a light blue robe and slippers as Nadia managed to get to her feet, swaying slightly before she steadied herself. She easily slipped on the robe and slippers, though, then shot him a warm smile as she put a hand on his shoulder.

"Lead on, Eric" she said, squeezing his shoulder just as Jack reappeared in the doorway, looking as unhappy as he got. That meant, Weiss thought in some deep, dark corner of his mind, that the older mans expression hadn't changed at all. Jack Bristow only had one expression he knew of: grim, as though constantly expecting the very worst to be the only possible outcome.

"It's worse than you think it is. The CCTV has been deactivated in this area, but I established that the alarms and security alerts have been stood-down as well. No matter what happens here, we're on our own. Move quickly and shoot to kill, do not hesitate. Don't argue" snapped Jack, at Weiss's questioning glance.

Weiss wanted to ask what if this was some kind of drill or internal problem in the Embassy, but he didn't, where Jack Bristow was concerned he knew better. If the older Agent told you shoot to kill, you followed Orders. He didn't make mistakes like that.

"Got it. Jack, do you have any idea what could be happening here?" asked Weiss, hoping for at least an attempt at reassurance from Jack He didn't get it.

"For all of this to have happened means someone has access to the Master Codes for the Embassy Security systems. That kind of access _only_ comes from the inside. Trust no one. Weiss, your immediate job is to get us transport to the airport and out of the Embassy compound as quickly as possible. Check out a random vehicle from the car pool and do not allow anyone to touch the vehicle if at all possible. We protect Nadia together until we reach pool access, I'll lead" said Jack.

Weiss just nodded and they moved out, Jack ahead of them, automatically adapting to Nadia's pace as her battered body slowed her down. Not much, but she simply couldn't manage her normal striding pace. There were advantages to being used to operating as part of a team, though, you got used to adapting to cover one another's weak points, Weiss knew. The disadvantages were that, with a team member as injured as Nadia was, your focus had to be split fifty-fifty between you and the injured Agent to take up the slack, reducing operational efficiency.

He'd have done the same for any and every member of the team, though, just as they would have for him-maybe excepting Sloane in both cases. On top of which, he had little doubt left to him that he was falling in love with Nadia. He knew falling heavily for a woman he worked beside on a regular basis, on missions where you stood a good chance of dying a violent death at any time, at best, wasn't wise. But, if Vaughn and Sydney could make it work, even with all the ups and downs they'd had, including Sydney's two-year "death"? He could find a way with Nadia.

"Use the stairs, elevators cannot be trusted in these circumstances" said Jack, cool and cold as ever. He pressed the elevator button anyway and gestured for Weiss and Nadia to pass him, clearly intending to jam the elevator on the floor before following. As they went Weis wondered if that was really wise even for Jack, as Jack stepped carefully to one side of the doors away from immediate access and observation. For all they knew, the moment the elevator door opened someone would toss a Flash Grenade through and come out firing an M-60...

It didn't happen like that. Instead, the moment that the doors began to open Jack glimpsed a darkly dressed tall figure in Marine combat fatigues, with odd dark stains around his mouth and over his chest. He was holding an M-16, but not at attention or at ease, more as if he was holding a club and didn't know exactly how. Then his head snapped up, he looked Jack in the eye as the doors came fully open-and Jack took a step backwards.

The man had been a Marine once, now he was something _else_. His eyes were so bloodshot they were practically bleeding, his gums _were_ bleeding, a fact revealed as his lips curled back from his teeth, his skin was far too pale and seemed, in part, to be flaking off... When he looked straight at Jack, he _growled_ like a wild animal, then he lunged forwards, grabbing as though he thought he had claws-

Jack's fist broke his nose and staggered him, a hard knee to the groin toppled him and he stopped dead as Jack slammed an uppercut to his stomach, even as he collapsed, with such force that he nearly left the floor. Not pausing for a moment, Jack got the former Marine in a headlock and broke his neck, before dropping his body across the elevator doors to jam them.

Weiss had seen the attack, but knew that Jack could take care of himself and had found himself fighting the fire door as it appeared to have been locked shut. It was a solid door in a solid frame, though, so shoulder charges and kicks weren't doing any good. He had to resort to his gun as Nadia took cover down the hallway, shooting the lock twice then throwing all of his weight into one last kick. The door sprang open, to Weiss's relief, just in time for the staggered man the other side to catch his balance and body-tackle Weiss so hard he slammed Weiss into the opposite wall.

Weiss slammed the butt of his gun down, hard and fast, on the back of the mans neck three, four times before the man who seemed to be trying to _chew_ his way through Weiss's clothes fell to his knees. Weiss slammed a knee to the mans face and catapulted him over backwards in a spray of blood, then shot him in the head for good measure. He got his first good look at the man then, pale short, dark trousers and tie, Embassy staffer, had to be…

Nadia wasn't exempt from the sudden attack, either, but she did better than Weiss. Crouched by a door to avoid any chance of ricochets striking her, she turned out to be just inside the reach of an arm which smashed through the glass partition and grabbed her hair in a bloody hand. Her hair nearly came out at the roots as her attacker yanked at her, but the slippery blood on the hand worked to her advantage and she only lost a few strands as she tore loose.

Her attacker came half through the door and tried to grab her again, but hours of training with her Sister came to her help and brutally cut fear and shock out of her mind. Her right hand slashed up and collided with her attackers nose bone in a very particular way-and he collapsed dead in maybe a second, his nose bone in his brain.

"GO! GO! GO!" bellowed Jack, gun in hand running straight for the stairs. Nadia was first down the stairs despite her injuries, ignoring the ache in her chest and other parts of her body, while a shocked Weiss was right behind Jack. Jack overtook Nadia on the steps at such speed he nearly ran over her-Weiss blinked as Nadia expertly let Jack pass clear without breaking stride, had they practised that?-while growls started to echo all over the place on the floor they'd fled.

"Jack, what the _**Hell**_-?!" Weiss practically screamed as they sprinted down the stairs, finally recovering his voice. He hoped he didn't sound as girly as he thought he did to Nadia.

"Not. NOW. Weiss!" Jack snapped out from between gritted teeth, without even pausing to look back and see if the younger Agent was wounded or not. Weiss suspected that right now the older Agent just didn't care-and, given the insanity of what had just happened, he couldn't blame the man. Instead, Weiss threw everything he had left into running, even while doing his best to keep an eye on Nadia, who seemed to be doing better than him at that moment.

They made the car pool so fast that Weiss lost count of the floors, but when they managed to open the door things went from bad to worse. Inside, all Hell had broken loose-literally.

Blood coated the walls and floor, a dead body dressed in a Marine uniform was sat against the wall to their left, M-16 still in the mouth, the top of the mans head gone. Three more men and one woman lay dead on the floor, evidently shot dead by precisely-placed semi-automatic fire which had torn apart heart and head. It took no imagination to realise that the Marine had killed them all before turning the gun on himself.

One of the cars was burning, emitting a thick, acrid stench that smelt like an overcooked side of bacon mixed in with the acid stench of melting plastic and torched leather-Weiss knew that he was smelling the stink of burning human flesh the second he breathed in and barely avoided vomiting instantaneously.

A people carrier had apparently tried to move off, but it seemed that the driver had lost control and hit a metal and concrete support pillar at speed despite a short run-up illustrated by the scorch marks of tires skidding. The entire front of the car had crumpled into the main body as though it had been shredded by a bomb after being concertinaed by an impact which would have pulverised a human body. Given the strange visible stains and odd shapes the car had been left in, along with the broken arm sticking out of a shattered window, Weiss didn't want to know what had happened to the vehicles occupants.

The floor was so slick with blood that walking was dangerous in places, on top of which the number of still-parked cars could have hidden away a number of people, including armed people. Weiss _really_ didn't want to try to scout out the place when everyone seemed to have gone insane... He glanced at Jack, but the older Agent was as grim as ever and looked no different-well, maybe even grimmer than usual. Nadia? She looked...disturbed, but was holding it together surprisingly well. Ha, after the day she'd had what was there left that could really shock her?

That was when he heard the soft thump and grunt of what could only be a human footstep and a deep breath. His heart skipped a beat and he span, aiming at the sound, or at least where he thought it had come from, as Jack did the same while the unarmed Nadia moved towards Jack. Weiss would have bristled at her movements, but he wasn't a child. Under the circumstances, Jack simply _was_ the better choice. A shadow loomed in the windows of a car...

A man dressed in a soldiers uniform which Weiss didn't immediately recognise stumbled out from behind the car and went down on one knee, his left arm hanging limp and drenched in blood which was dripping from his fingers to the floor. In his right hand a regulation pistol was visible, but Weiss automatically noted that the slide was locked back, meaning that the guns magazine had been completely discharged. His uniform shirt was shredded at the left shoulder to halfway down the arm, mangled flesh and even muscle evident underneath that, while his right leg looked misshapen. Weiss guessed that the mans left knee was dislocated, or that a bone in his leg was broken.

Beyond that, there were spatters of blood on his face and pretty much everywhere else, the skin on the knuckles of both hands was torn as though the man had been in a vicious bare-handed fight and his uniform was tattered and damaged everywhere Weiss looked. The man looked as though he'd tried to fight a combine harvester and at least four human attackers all at the same time and barely come out alive.

"It's her...Sarah's Partner...It's the JAG officer. What's happened to him?" came Nadia's voice suddenly, breaking the spell that the sight of such appalling violence had cast over Weiss momentarily. He shook his head and moved forwards slowly, gun aimed at the soldiers head.

"I don't know, but stay alert and don't get within arms reach. Something is very, very wrong here and people with military-grade firearms are being affected by it" came back Jack's cold voice, even as the older Agent's eyes constantly scanned the room and everything and everyone in it, over and over again. Jack wasn't disturbed by what he was seeing, he'd seen worse, but he knew of very little that could cause Events like this. None of them had a Cure he knew of.

"Hey, HEY! Soldier! Can you hear me?" asked Weiss, not sure what response he'd get, if any. Almost to his surprise, the soldier blinked, then raised his head slowly and looked at him. He tried to focus, shook his head, spat out a gobbet of blood and tried again. This time his eyes focused somewhat, although he seemed strangely incoherent...

"Who the HELL are you?" asked the soldier, slowly and clearly, speaking as though he was having trouble with words and thought Weiss could be having the same problem. Why did the soldier seem to be having so much trouble concentrating? His injuries were serious, but he wasn't loosing enough blood to be in serious trouble yet and wasn't, evidently, in shock.

"Eric, let me try. Thomas? Thomas Edgars? I'm Helena, Helena Santini. Do you remember me?" Nadia asked, deliberately using her Alias as that was the name the JAG officer knew her by. He clearly wasn't thinking straight and had barely survived something awful, shaking his fragile hold on self-control-and maybe sanity-by telling him the truth about who she was now could be the straw that broke the camels back.

"Helena...? Sarah's…friend? Yes...yes, I know you, I...Why the Hell's it so hard to THINK?!" snapped out Edgar's, abruptly, slamming the gun in his working hand down on the floor hard with a crack of impact.

"Thomas, easy, I don't know what's happening here but I can see it's something awful and you can take as much time as you need to tell me about it. Can you tell me? What happened?" asked Nadia, softly yet speaking firmly and clearly. Weiss was impressed by her self-control, most women would have been screaming by this point, probably most men too, but a wounded soldier would most likely respond to questions which were really Orders gently put. After all, if someone screamed at a soldier it was either combat or life or death-and soldiers tended to respond only one way in a life or death situation: violently, fighting to survive the threat any way they could.

"I...crazy, everyone, went crazy...the food, it must have...shouting, screaming, tried to escape...shooting, people shooting, soldiers, killing...bit me, tore up my arm...did that, had to stop them getting out" said Thomas, half-nodding at the destroyed people carrier. Jack breathed in sharply at that.

"...Not...who I _am_...Not, _me_...Can't get it out of my head, _hurts_..." continued Thomas, even as blood began to trickle down his face suddenly from both nostrils. Even as Weiss noticed, he had to shake his head in disbelief.

People didn't just _develop_ nosebleeds without some kind of medical complication, but this man had clearly been upright and healthy just yesterday. He wouldn't have passed a physical with any significant health complaints, or potential health complaints severe enough to do this. So, what was happening here?

"I can see it. White spires and dreams, freedom, Paradise" said Thomas, suddenly speaking quickly and clearly, rising to his feet abruptly as though his injured leg was nothing.

"I see the way. I look for nothing" Thomas continued, raising his gun to his head and placing it right under his chin, even as Weiss lunged for him and Nadia shouted something-just as Thomas proved Weiss wrong, there was one bullet left in the gun. The back of Thomas's head came off and he went over backwards, falling to the floor with a heavy thud. He died with a smile on his face...

"Alright, I'll say it: what, the HELL, was that?!" snapped Weiss, suddenly unable to look at the body at all. He looked over at Nadia, to see her looking pale, shaken-but steady. Of course, she'd actually known the man to speak to, so it had to be even worse for her.

"CN88" said Jack, cutting off anything Weiss or Nadia might have been about to say with the finality of death itself. Both of them turned to him, Nadia surprised, Weiss not sure if he was horrified or surprised or both. Of course, the older man had twenty years with the Agency on either of them, minimum, so he had seen and been through much more than either of them could imagine.

"It was a chemical weapon deployed in Vietnam in 1975 in a Hail Mary pass by the US Army on CIA Orders. The intent was to cause the complete psychological and, eventually, physical destruction of enemy forces to the point that the North would be forced to sign a Peace Treaty with the South or run the risk of suffering casualties on a level best described as Genocide. The weapon was a primitive but experimental design that remains Classified to this day, but it's target was higher brain functions and physical alignment" said Jack, continuing without being asked, unusually for him.

"The one time it was deployed in Operational conditions was the one time it ever was. It did what it was supposed to, but there were unexpected side effects. People exposed were later reported by survivors to have all reported having seen a view of Paradise and to know the way there as their minds broke down. Immediately after the mind decayed so much that higher consciousness ceased, they suffered a Psychotic Break of such severity that they turned into no more than feral animals and used every means at their disposal to destroy anything and everyone in sight" Jack continued, shaking his head.

"I've only seen satellite footage of what happened next, but more than 300 people died and an entire village ceased to exist overnight. People were torn to pieces and eaten alive by those exposed at worst, at best they suffered a fatal reaction to CN88 and suffered such a severe physical reaction that they broke every bone in their own bodies and drowned in their own blood. Entire buildings were destroyed and the forest floor was carpeted with blood and body parts. The whole area was Napalmed to Cover Up what had happened" said Jack, looking hard at Weiss and Nadia.

"I am telling you this so you understand what your are dealing with. What we just saw was a very brave man doing the only thing he could do to prevent himself from becoming what he had obviously been fighting against. We can and will honour his Sacrifice by getting out of here alive, remembering what happened here and making sure that this does not spread. Leave that to me" said Jack, as both Weiss and Nadia tried to ask how they could stop what was happening from getting out of the Embassy.

"For now, though, we have to assume the gates will be secured and we will be unable to exit them in a vehicle. I'll drive us to the gates and we can jump the wall. We're leaving, now" said Jack, heading for the nearest car even as Weiss heard the sound of more footsteps, not far away-and what sounded horribly like a growl...

Jack turned and fired in one movement, a screech of pain echoed abruptly, then Weiss broke into a dead run for the car Jack had been heading for with Nadia right behind him. He smashed the drivers side window with the butt of his gun, opened the lock and threw himself into the drivers seat, slapping the switch to open all of the car doors at once even as he did. Nadia slid into the passenger seat with a wince and slammed shut the door even as Weiss stripped the cover from the steering column and grabbed the necessary wires.

It was the work of thirty seconds to hotwire the car and gun the engine, but it took ninety seconds in total because the car turned out to have enhanced security measures he had to work around to even get the engine started. In that time, Jack killed a Marine with a double-tap to the head and heart after the maddened man didn't stop with fatal heart injuries, an Embassy staffer whose exposed ribs on one side weren't slowing him down-and, finally, what looked like a Marine officer, using the last of his ammunition to do it.

Nadia lowered all the car windows as Weiss got the engine started, which didn't seem wise to him considering the circumstances, but he understood when he gunned the engine to let Jack know that they were ready to go. Jack turned and sprinted straight for the car, then dived through the back window without slowing down and landed full-length across the back seats with a grunt of impact. Weiss simply rammed his foot all the way to the floor on the accelerator and held it there.

The tires span so fast that smoke was spewed from underneath the car seconds before half a ton of metal and plastic exploded into motion, slamming all of them back into their seats hard as the car moved. Weiss whipped the steering wheel left and right, narrowly avoiding other parked cars without slowing down, clipping a concrete pillar in the process and loosing the rear bumper but no momentum. He hit the way out to find half a dozen people staggering around in front of him, stood on the brakes to stop the car since he couldn't be sure if they'd all been effected or not-then he saw their eyes.

Every one of them, visible even in the low light of the underground car pool, had massively bloodshot eyes and various injuries. Clothes were bloodied, no weapons were visible...Weiss didn't need to see any more to know what they were dealing with.

"Eric!" shouted Nadia, making him glance at her-then he saw it, movement in the rear-view mirror. More of them were following at a run, coming after the car, with the only three uninfected people in the building aboard-Weiss swore viciously and slammed the accelerator down again.

"Hang on to something!" he snapped, even as the group of people ahead of them started running towards them as well and he didn't slow down, passing twenty, thirty, forty... They hit the first one, the car jerked and he went sailing over the roof, denting the top of the car before tumbling over the back. The second tried to jump on the car but bounced off the windscreen, shattering it in the process, blood staining the shattered glass instantly as he was blasted aside by the sheer force of the cars speed. The third made the leap and punched a fist right through the already-shattered windscreen, grabbing Nadia's top and trying to dig his fingers into her flesh. Weiss pulled his gun and shot the man four times point-blank through the windscreen, sending him hurling away with blood spraying everywhere.

Weiss tossed his gun to Nadia and trusted to memory as he didn't dare slow down, the cars increasing speed literally allowing it to tear through two of those left in front of it, spinning them away with broken bones and massive injuries. The last got halfway onto the bonnet and was left stuck there by the pressure of their momentum, fingernails scraping uselessly at smooth metal as it tried to pull itself up-

The car jerked and lost speed sharply as the side clipped a wall on the way out all too suddenly. Weiss wrenched the wheel around and tore clear, able to avoid the wall on his side since he could see it clearly, but the damage had been done. The man on the front of the car scrambled on top of the bonnet and slammed his entire upper body through the existing hole with terrible force, lunging for both Nadia and Weiss.

Nadia rammed Weiss's gun between the mans teeth and emptied it point-blank into his head, killing the man instantly-but leaving his dead body hanging loose through the windscreen. Jack just leaned forwards and grabbed the man by both arms, then heaved with all of his strength, tearing the body loose and into the back of the car even while tearing it to shreds with the shattered glass lacerating the remains. He threw the body out of a window as quickly as possible, ignoring the blood coating him even as they finally escaped from the car pool.

Weiss fumbled for his spare magazine, found it and gave it to Nadia, who reloaded. Then she took a deep breath, leant backwards and kicked the windscreen, despite the fact she was only wearing slippers and the amount of leg she was showing off. The shattered windscreen was almost out of its frame anyway, so three more hard kicks threw it out onto the bonnet, after which it promptly fell off. Nadia sat back down straight and ignored the shards of glass stuck in her leg, brushing off her robe as she sat.

"Pull up right in front of the gates, Agent Weiss, no-one can escape" said Jack, ejecting the empty magazine of his gun and holstering it. Weiss just nodded, too busy driving to reply aloud-and very worried about the fact that the car's engine was starting to emit dark puffs of smoke. Fortunately, the gate guards were simply missing and the gates were shut, so pulling right up to the gates with the nose of the car wasn't a problem.

"GO!" snapped Jack, leaping out of the car and jumping onto the bonnet almost in one movement. He had his mobile phone out and was calling a number Weiss couldn't make out, but he heard Jack mention Sloane before he flung himself over the gate and then helped Nadia climb over. Jack practically hurdled the gate right behind Nadia, making sure she was clear first. Jack took Weiss's gun from Nadia even as they jumped down to the ground, checking it was loaded even as he hit the ground.

"Keep going" Jack snapped, even as the first runners came into sight, then he aimed at the bonnet of the damaged car-and shot it six times. The petrol tank exploded, blasting the bonnet off of the car and sending flame gouting up into the sky, trailed by thick black smoke, all of which quickly engulfed the front of the car, making it useless as a springboard for anyone. That done, he turned and ran after Weis and Nadia, hoping that Weiss knew to find new transport immediately. He also hoped that Sloane would get the requested strike authorised and carried out very soon indeed.

_APO_

Arvin Sloane had been expecting a call from Jack Bristow, but not the kind he got. In fact, difficult as it was now to surprise him, let alone shock him, Jack's call managed both feats. He would have enjoyed the novelty, if not for the contents of the call.

"_Arvin, I don't have time for this so listen carefully: I have Confirmation of a Level 6 Biohazard Outbreak at the Embassy in Vietnam, timeline unknown but occurring NOW. Requesting IMMEDIATE Arc Flight on the Embassy_" Jack shouted down the phone even as Sloane picked up the handset.

"_What_?! Jack, I'll have to get Clearance from the Director and she'll have to get the strike Cleared by the President to allow for a strike, let alone one in Vietnam. You have to give me more than your word and educated guesswork to take to Chase for that kind of call!" snapped Sloane, hitting the switch to shut and seal his office door even as he spoke.

Marshall looked over, evidently startled, while the preoccupied Vaughn flicked a glance over and simply kept working, but the intellectually brilliant Marshall wasn't at his best dealing with people whose existence revolved around the manipulation of others using their own skills, knowledge and experiences against them to achieve a goal the individual being used would never imagine. Sloane was a past master at doing precisely that, but he'd also known Marshall for seven years, if not well-and people did learn.

The younger Agent would be able to guess that something was very wrong from Sloane's own aggravated manner-but if he couldn't hear the details it wouldn't matter. Vaughn was considerably better at reading people, but he'd never been able to read or anticipate Sloane and they both knew it. As long as he controlled the flow of information, Sloane could keep the situation under control.

He didn't want Sydney crashing into the middle of an Operation in the process of blowing up in their faces with her Father and her Sister in very serious danger, most of all, especially as unstable as she evidently was. He would have had to have her restrained to stop her from flying out, by force if necessary-and, given Sydney's own nature and exceptional skills, he suspected he would have had to Lock Down APO itself to contain her for certain. No, it was much better he kept this to himself.

"_CN88, Arvin, remember it? We saw footage of what it does and heard how it works and I've just gained all the evidence I need to be absolutely sure that it's on the loose here. We have NO time. Make the call or casualties will be into the thousands by the end of the day!_" Jack practically snarled down the phone. Sloane's eyes widened to the degree that was physically possible without him going blind at Jack's words.

"I remember. I'm making the call now" said Sloane, then he slammed the phone down, dialled Director Chase's direct line and very nearly held his breath. Chase picked up on the first ring.

"_Speak. What do you have?_" she asked, clearly being at her desk and at work despite the hour. He could respect that, she was just as dedicated as he was to her work, a compliment he didn't hand out lightly. But now was _not_ the time.

"A Level 6 Biohazard Outbreak, CN88, Confirmed by Jack Bristow on-site at the Embassy in Vietnam" replied Sloane, never one to mince words unless he needed to. At the moment, though, time was of the essence.

"_Sloane, you had better be willing to put your life on the line for telling me that. There's only one means of Containment for an Outbreak of that kind and we both know it_" came back Chase, almost immediately after he finished speaking.

"Yes. Jack Bristow has requested an IMMEDIATE Arc Flight on the Embassy, so I suspect he is currently in the Embassy himself and is observing the situation first-hand. I trust Jack Bristow with my life and my Daughters life, the security of APO itself, any and all information I might have access to through the CIA and any other sources and, above all else, to make the right call in the worst of possible circumstances. That man does not over or underestimate anything or anyone. If he says we need to deal with this now, we do. Say I Hacked your personal Codes and made the call myself, if it helps, I'll cover for you and take the fall, but we have to do this NOW" snapped Sloane, sharply.

"_There is no magic bullet here, Sloane, I have to call the President and request an urgent Conference to brief him on the threat and convince him to respond as required. That takes as long as it takes_" replied Chase, a warning tone in her voice Sloane didn't miss. He ignored it, he'd never forget what he'd seen and heard the one and only time CN88 had been deployed. Nobody deserved that, not even the worst of the people he'd dealt with and even slaughtered over the years.

"No, it doesn't" he snapped back. Sloane said a name over the phone, added a date and time, then a place. "Get the President on the line and mention those specific details, Director, he'll do what you want" Sloane said, simply.

"_...Did you just tell me to Blackmail the President of the United States into Ordering an air strike against our own Embassy in Vietnam, Sloane?_" replied Chase, very softly, her voice glacier cold. It didn't bother Sloane, he'd been worked over by experts. Chase simply wasn't up to the job where he was concerned.

"With the greatest possible respect, Director, make the call or I will" said Sloane, then he put the phone down. She could Fire him if she wanted, have him Arrested most likely, maybe even have him killed, but if that was what it took to protect Nadia he'd die a happy man.

He'd meant every word when he'd told Nadia the man who'd kidnapped her and so nearly lost his mind trying to force her to recover the Sphere of Life in Siena, nearly dying himself in the process, was gone forever. He was not Arvin Sloane, former CIA Agent, former Director of SD-6, rogue Agent and Rambaldi-obsessed fanatic capable of anything to achieve Rambaldi's ultimate reward, not any more.

Now he was a troubled Father with a daughter he loved who he would do anything to protect, something he had learnt from Jack Bristow and continued to learn more about every day. He just hoped that his Promise to her could overcome almost forty years of obsession on his part in the end...

_Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam_

Jack, despite having almost thirty years on Nadia and close to twenty on Weiss, led the run down the road from the Embassy into town as though he was aiming for the World Record. Arms pumping like pistons, legs hammering his feet again and again into the ground in a regular rhythm, he threw himself into getting clear of the area with the sense of purpose that had driven his whole life driving him on faster than his ageing body told him was wise.

Weiss was close behind, one arm around a weakening Nadia as she managed a slow run despite her injuries and poor health, but he didn't have time to concern himself with Nadia's state of health at the moment. If they didn't get clear in time, it wouldn't matter if she was still on her feet or not.

He surged ahead, throwing everything he had left into the sprint towards the road, looking for any vehicle at all capable of holding three people. Then he saw an open-mouthed cabbie near the end of the road, sitting in the driver's seat of a battered-looking yellow cab, just staring at the sight of a blood-drenched big American man running towards him as though Hell itself was after him... Which wasn't far wrong, Jack silently admitted to himself.

"DON'T MOVE!" he bellowed in Vietnamese, closing the distance before the driver could even react, rolling over the bonnet, grabbing the passenger door and wrenching it open before throwing himself into the seat. He pulled out his wallet, took out all the money he had on him-$200US dollars-and pressed it into the cabbies hands before slamming the door shut.

The cabbie, a tall, thin young Vietnamese man with a bald head and black sunglasses covering his eye, looked at him, looked at the money, looked at him and just smiled. "Who you want me kill, sir?" he asked, in rough English. Jack was glad following his instincts had paid off, he didn't know the city well enough any more to get to the airport in a hurry. The cabbie would know every short cut.

"Nobody. Take me and those two with me to the airport, right now, no questions or stops? It's yours, with another $100 US if we get there without being stopped" he replied. The cabbie just smiled like a man who'd won the Lottery, a toothy grin almost cutting his face in half.

"I will do that, sir" he replied, even as a gasping Weiss and barely-conscious Nadia arrived and literally collapsed across the back seats, Weiss barely managing to get the door closed behind them. The cabbie took off his sunglasses and put them in his shirt pocket, then put the car in gear.

"Buckle up" he said, with a vicious smile on his face. Then he span the cab at such a speed even Jack, who'd been expecting it, had to hang on tight, before sending the cab screaming down the road away from the Embassy even as sirens sounded in the city. Apparently, the sound of gunfire had warned someone that something else had occurred concerning the American's...

_APO_

Sloane's phone rang again five minutes after he'd put the phone down on Director Chase. He picked it up-and Chase's voice practically exploded out of the earpiece at him. He put it to his ear and ignored the volume level, making out the words slowly and carefully until Chase stopped shouting.

"..._I NEVER want to know the truth about what you mentioned, Sloane, you hear me?! NEVER! The President would have us both killed in public for what he thinks I know after I mentioned what you told me! I have NEVER heard that man so angry, not even when he's dressed down the Joint Chiefs over the mess in Afghanistan!_" Chase almost shouted down the phone, Sloane patiently waiting until she had to pause to draw breath to cut in.

"It worked, then, I take it?" he asked, calmly, a smile spreading across his face as he leaned back in his chair. He'd often thought that the world would be so much simpler without Politicians, Dictators got so much more done, but then they were far harder to manipulate than "Politicians". After all, when your reputation actually mattered to you? All it took was one indiscretion, the smallest of things, really...

"_ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?! That man told me he would have our skins mounted on his wall in the Oval Office if what you mentioned EVER so much arose as a POSSIBILITY in public, if it was the last thing he ever did! He could make that HAPPEN, SLOANE! Am I getting through to you?!_" Chase almost bellowed down the phone.

"You are, but you and I are safe from him, Director, he just doesn't know it yet. The less said, the better. So, again, I assume he granted your request?" replied Sloane, not bothered by Chase's warnings. The President of the United States wasn't even the most dangerous man he'd ever dealt with, besides which Sloane always knew which rock to look under to find any dirty secret.

He could find ways to pressure anybody if he put his mind to it, people always just assumed he wouldn't dare-not a thought which had ever crossed Jack Bristow's mind, though, admittedly. Jack understood Sloane, just as he understood Jack, a large part of the reason they'd made such a good team over all those years together. Sloane was the expert at getting what they wanted from people without leaving a mark, Jack was the expert at making a point. When they worked together, matters were resolved quickly, effectively and efficiently. Such a pity it had taken Irina's "death" to make Jack the expert he was today...

"_...Yes, air strike approved, ETA ten minutes. For the record, Sloane, since I haven't told you this before? You scare the Hell out of me sometimes. Get it done-and bear in mind this will all come back on you, not me, if it happens_" said Chase, then she hung up.

Sloane shook his head and crossed his arms across his chest, putting his elbows firmly on the table. "Your move now, Jack..." he said, wondering what was happening to Jack, his Daughter-and Weiss-in Vietnam...

_Ho Chi Ming City, Vietnam_

The cabbie knew every back road, short cut and fast road to get to the airport, as Jack had hoped, but he also knew how to take every corner without using the brakes to save time. He took corners on two wheels, did ninety-degree turns around sharp corners without blinking an eye at such a speed that if he lost traction for even a second the car would have rolled. He raced down straight roads so fast people in the way were forced to jump in all directions just to avoid being killed and weaved around and through traffic like a professional Stunt Driver.

Jack had his seatbelt on by the time they hit the second straight stretch, Weiss had Nadia in his arms and his fingers clamped around the safety handles in a death grip. Nadia would have denied it if asked, but she was actually enjoying the thrill of such lunatic driving at absurd speeds. She had a serious wild side, Sydney knew that better than anyone, even Eric, but even Sydney's jaw would have dropped if she'd known just how much her younger Sister enjoyed the thrill of such lunacy. Nadia still wouldn't have cared, she saw no reason to change herself to fit in with what others thought she should be at all.

A shriek sounded ahead, then a vehicle horn-then the cabbie swerved sharp left and mounted the pavement with a thump of contact which temporarily left the cab airborne. The cab slammed back down with a screech of grinding metal, smashed through boxes of fruit on sale and swerved back onto the road without loosing any speed at all. The driver hadn't made a sound throughout, utterly focused on his driving to a degree which surprised her. She had to wonder why, not to mention where he'd learnt to drive like he was...

A police siren sounded off to their left, a police car pulled out behind them and a police officer with a handgun lent out, a loudhailer in his other hand, bellowing orders for them to stop. The cabbie ignored the police as though they were insignificant obstacles and span the cab down a side street, walls so close that the wing mirrors scraped sparks on both sides. Seconds later they burst onto a field road, the car suddenly being bounced up and down by loose rock and dips in the earth, but the cabbie didn't even blink and kept his foot all the way down.

The police officer gave up trying to order them to stop and tried to shoot out the tires instead, but the speed they were travelling at and both cars unpredictable motion made it impossible. In frustration, the cop started shooting at the cabs back window, forcing everyone but the cabbie to duck, Jack not willing to return fire and risk killing Vietnamese police officers-but the cabbie took the decision out of his hands. He reached under the dashboard one-handed and pulled out a heavy shotgun, span the wheel, pumped the brakes and managed to put the car into reverse, still heading away from the police without slowing down at all.

He chambered a round and aimed the gun out the window-then fired. The cop cars front left tire blew out like it had been hit with a hammer tipped with a small bomb. The cop driver instantly lost control and the car slewed wildly sideways, rolled over and flipped again and again as momentum and gravity took over, before slamming to ground at last after so many flips Nadia knew the cops were dead. The cabbie just handed the shotgun to Jack, who almost looked shocked, then said "You next time, sir", before spinning the car around again and pouring on even more speed.

They reached the airport in record time, by the unique method of simply crashing through the weak security fence and driving down a runway the wrong way. The airport wasn't Vietnamese territory as a "passing through" area, but Nadia didn't doubt the authorities wouldn't let that stop them from arresting the mad cabbie and his armed passengers.

Fortunately, Jack spotted their plane ready and waiting on the tarmac and directed the cabbie to it. The cab stopped perfectly in front of the boarding stairs of the two-engine passenger plane and startled pilot and co-pilot who were smoking cigarettes on the boarding stairs, but Jack was out of the plane and running up the stairs even before the cab had fully stopped. Weiss helped Nadia to her feet and she hurried up the stairs as best she could, just as Nadia's sharp ears caught the echoing drone of heavy jet engines-she frowned, too heavy to be a commercial flight? She was abruptly distracted by Jack barking orders at the pilots even as Weiss and she passed him.

"I don't care if you have a flight plan filed or not, we are taking off one minute from now or I will leave you both here and fly the plane myself. NOW" snapped Jack, clearly barely restraining the urge to shove the pilots into the plane. Nadia would have helped if she could, especially after what they'd all seen in the Embassy, but she was barely able to stand and walk under her own power and Weiss was busy helping her stay upright. Besides, it was Jack Bristow, he didn't need her help.

"Sir, we can't just take off willy-nilly, Diplomatic Immunity or not. We could crash on the way out without a clear flight path or we might end up with the Vietnamese Air Force after us if they think we've been hijacked. What possible reason could you give me to risk all of that-?" argued the Pilot, before shutting up suddenly as he saw something she couldn't.

She twisted around to see even as Weiss lowered her into a seat-and her jaw dropped as a burning tower of fire surrounded by thick, expanding black clouds literally exploded up from what could only be the site of the Embassy. Seconds later the echoing roar of impact and detonation rumbled past them... The pilot and co-pilot ran inside and were starting up the plane even as Jack came striding inside.

"Agent Weiss, pay our driver $100 US then get back in here and secure the door. Nadia, strap in and prepare for take off. MOVE" snapped Jack, even as he strode past to sit at the front. Weiss left at a dead run and reappeared literally seconds later, kicking away the boarding stairs even as he slammed the plane door shut and locked it, after which he quickly began to strap himself in next to her.

She heard the screech of tires despite the growing hum of the planes engines and hoped that their driver would escape. She suspected he would, he seemed remarkably capable for "just" a cab driver...

"Jack, tell me we did not just nuke Vietnam?!" shouted Weiss, over the sound of the engines powering up as the pilots raced through their checklist and poured on power as fast as they dared. Nadia just hoped they wouldn't need it in the end, the Diplomatic jet didn't come equipped with Countermeasures for any form of combat. Besides which, if she saw much more action in just one week she'd end up in a Coma just to get some rest.

"No. What you saw was a combination Napalm and High Explosive strike designed to wipe out the infection itself and any surviving traces at all. It CANNOT be allowed to spread. As to how Arvin managed to call in an Air Strike on Vietnamese territory so quickly, you don't want to know what I suspect" said Jack, even as he strapped himself in.

Nadia just smiled at that. Weiss looked at Jack unblinking for a long, long moment, then he just sat back and closed his eyes. Apparently he REALLY didn't want to know.

The plane suddenly accelerated down the runway as the pilots firewalled the throttles, even as Nadia caught a squawk of sound from what could only be the planes radios. The pilots made no reply, even when the sound came back much louder a second time. She caught a glimpse of one mans face, he was sweating and looked increasingly nervous even in her few-second glimpse, not good...

The radio squawked one last time, this time the voice coming out of it so loud she heard part of the broadcast. They were being Ordered to cease take-off procedure and stand down or be treated as a possible Terrorist threat, which Nadia knew meant they would be shot down if necessary. Would the Vietnamese go that far? Normally, particularly with a US plane, no. But with what had just happened? She suspected yes.

The plane took off fast, so sharply they were all forced down hard into their seats. The whole plane was shaking far harder than she was used to, which she knew meant the pilot had the throttles all the way open and didn't care about burning through fuel. Not good under "normal" circumstances, at the moment it sounded like the best possible plan to her. She glimpsed the tops of tall buildings and even trees as they flew as well, so it was obvious that the pilots were staying low in an attempt to dodge radar and build up speed.

The strategy worked, because before long the plane slowed down to simply fast and Nadia was able to push herself up out of her chair to glimpse open ocean ahead of them. If they were in international waters, they were safe. She lay back, sighed, then slowly turned to face Weiss one last time.

"Eric, just so you know, it's been a long week, so you'll have to excuse me while I do something I would rather not" she said, softly. Weiss just looked at her, curious and caring, obviously open to any suggestions.

"What's that?" he asked, with a smile, tracing his fingers through her hair. He knew she liked it when people played with her hair-when she let them, that was.

"Faint" she said, softly, then did just that. Her last memory was of the startled Weiss's expression, which was worth a picture all by itself.

/End of Chapter 36. All Reviews welcomed./


	37. Chapter 37

Legal disclaimers: see earlier Parts.

Disclaimers: see earlier Parts.

**The Last Day**

_LA, 2007, one day ago_

Toni Cummings walked down onto the underground station concourse, slowly and carefully, following Artemisia Hades instructions to the letter. The station was crowded, despite the fact that most people would be at work since it was after the normal lunch hour, but she'd expected that. New York was referred to as the city which never slept-and who would know the truth of that better than a Tech and Weapons Specialist like her? When you sold weapons, you didn't sleep until the deal was done or you discovered that the Clients were likely to try out their new purchases on you to "See if they worked".

She'd stayed awake for over a week before now, on a combination of shredded nerves, far too much coffee, Caffeine pills and enough fast food to make her physically ill in a desperate attempt to outlast the other negotiators stubborn refusal to pay what she was owed on the basis his people didn't think the supplies were worth the price. She'd succeeded, so it had been worth it-but she'd spent two days throwing up afterwards and hadn't been able to even smell coffee for a month afterwards without risking her sanity as memories of one hundred and sixty-eight hours plus spent awake kept creeping back into her minds eye. She'd nearly gone nuts with the lack of rest and blurring of time, but the money had made it worthwhile. All the same, she'd promised herself after that: never again.

She'd been awake for three straight days, fuelled by massive doses of adrenaline, a healthy surge of fear every time she thought about who was after her and been reminded she wouldn't be safe until she was done by the pain of her injuries whenever she tried to relax, before she'd managed to track down Artemisia. Waking up in the car had been uncomfortable, but her head had been clear for the first time in much too long when she'd come to and she'd actually felt safe knowing the lethal Artemisia was nearby, watching her back.

The flirting had been almost uncomfortable, but she'd known what Art was all about long before she'd tracked her down again. The woman was stunningly beautiful and she knew it, just as she knew she could probably have anyone she wanted and-unfortunately-she'd included Toni near the top of that list for some reason. All the same, for a woman like Art Toni would have been willing to make an exception if it came down to that-before she'd been kicked out of her car in LA and dumped in the street for unspecified reasons, at least.

However, now she'd finally reached the Sanction point where Sydney Bristow and the team she worked with could be contacted. Now, she had one more thing to do, then all she _could_ do was wait-so she did it. She glanced around, located the security camera, faced it squarely so that her face could clearly be seen and stood ready. With any luck, it wouldn't take the CIA team very long at all to realise just who was standing on a station platform waiting for them.

If it did, it was possible she'd just killed herself. The people who were after her were more than capable of checking through CCTV footage from any and all sources to find her if she was stupid enough to let herself be caught on camera...

_Abandoned industrial complex, 50 miles east of LA_, _2007, one day ago_

Sydney Bristow glanced around herself as her Mobile kept ringing, shrugged, pulled it out and flipped it open, checking called ID. It was APO, which meant she couldn't ignore it, so she hit receive and put it to her ear. "Bristow?" she asked, not sure who she'd be speaking to.

"_It's Sloane. Get back to APO, NOW, the Vietnam Op has blown up in our faces. You are recalled to Active Duty as of this call_" said Sloane, his voice smooth, calm and clear as ever-but she knew him well enough to detect a strong trace of tension under his usual control. For him to be disturbed enough to be allowing that to show through, though, unless he was playing her...? Something very bad had happened, either someone was dead on the team or close, or something that directly involved Nadia, perhaps. That, though, was very much a worst-case scenario.

She wasn't sure whether or not she should be either appalled or shocked or numb at her seeming lack of reaction to the news, but something told her that, given everything she'd learnt about herself in just the past few hours of talking, she was simply too overwhelmed to register shock or astonishment any longer. If she even still could, since it seemed she was capable of much more and worse than she'd ever imagined...

"I'm on my way now, but I went out for a drive and can't get there in less than half an hour if I drive as fast as is legal with clear roads and no lights all the way" she replied, without missing a beat. She was on Medical Leave, after all, so taking a drive wasn't a bad way to explain her failure to be physically present in LA, even if Sloane was suspicious enough to have Marshall track her phone calls.

"_Understood, get moving_" said Sloane, then he put the phone down, well aware that Sydney was too much the professional to ask for a Briefing, or even about her Sisters status, over the phone. She sometimes, sometimes often, didn't like the fact that he even knew her that well.

"Cole, I have to go, duty calls. Explain to Talia and Selene? Thanks" she said, rising and ignoring the dirty look Anna Espinosa shot her. It didn't even register, until she was striding outside at Cole's nod, that she'd referred to Monica and Kate by their professional names, as though she was more used to and comfortable doing so. She still didn't even know the women, despite all that Monica had told her...which suggested that their attempts to jog her memory were working?

_New York_

Anna Neagley, David Webb had discovered-it just didn't feel right to call himself Jason Bourne any longer, he'd decided, especially with a new man carrying that name out there-drove a motorbike like a Demon. She took corners at speeds that left scorch marks while weaving in and out of moving traffic as though it was stationary, dodging trucks which would have flattened them as though it was not only easy, but expected. She drove so fast he'd spotted people looking around after they'd passed them to see what had hit them without spotting anything out of place.

What she was displaying, he knew from far too long with CIA Agents as well as other associated types, was what was referred to as "Control Driving". It was part of an unusual skill set that was normally associated with the Special Forces Elite or Black Ops intelligence teams. The ability to get in and out of the target location quick and clean if it was a "Snatch" Op, where the intent was to take an individual off the street, or a "Dead" Op, where the intent was to kill. Even given what little he knew of Anna Neagley so far, he had little doubt that she came under every heading that would require such specialised training.

What had surprised him, though, was the fact that she had so visibly tensed when he had put his arms around her waist to secure himself on the bike behind her. Her muscles had been corded and ridged, her breathing had accelerated and she had been almost literally trembling-although with nothing close to fear. No, he knew anger when he saw it, but her reaction was little short of extraordinary with a man she had no reason to distrust, who her Father _had_ trusted, implicitly. She had relaxed, though, after almost a minute, although he'd been genuinely worried she'd physically attack him until she had.

They'd driven off without a word being said, which he suspected was for the best. Whatever made her the way she was, she clearly was only just in control of herself. Given what she did professionally? He _really_ didn't want to see what happened if her steel bar self-control slipped too far.

"Where are we going, anyway?" he yelled over the roaring of the bikes engine, deciding that just because she was Cactus's girl it didn't mean he could write her a blank Cheque. Hell, he hadn't done that in...he almost snarled in frustration, his ruined memory failing him again. As long as he could remember, which left almost two-thirds of his life unaccounted for.

The Jackal's man might have shot him and caused the actual physical injuries which had permanently damaged his memory, but he, David Webb, had Volunteered for the Mission which had led him to the place and time which left him with three bullets in him and a black hole where his memory used to be. Excepting a few sparks and scraps he'd recovered over the almost thirty years since.

He had no-one to blame but himself for what had happened to him-and if Marie hadn't been there when he first met her, he knew he would have either gone mad or killed himself, all those years ago. He'd been little better than a wounded animal, even after he'd physically recovered enough to take care of himself-and wounded animals either recovered or died. He'd been a shell of a man in a world he didn't remember or know with no friends or allies, or place of safety, at all. Left like that...?

"Does the name Noah Vosen mean anything to you?" Anna called back, just loud enough for him to hear over the engines roar. She had to know it would, but it still took him a moment to place the name. Conklin had never really retired from the CIA, no matter what anyone thought, people always wanted work done under the radar and the Saints reputation and history had spoken for itself. So had the name of Jason Bourne, more than once.

"...Wait, Ezra Kramer's man in the Agency, Deputy Director of the CIA Noah Vosen? _That_ Noah Vosen?" asked Webb, almost hoping he hadn't heard right. There was very little more likely to get you killed quickly and leave you dead badly than going after high-ranking Agents in the CIA, especially when that Agent was the strong right hand of the man almost certain to be the next Director of the CIA.

Kramer had access to resources the public didn't know existed to get the job done, while Vosen was no lightweight himself. If either man, let alone both, decided he and Anna were a real problem at any point? They'd both disappear into Guantanomo Bay by the end of the day, if they were very, very lucky. If they were granted a miracle, they'd be killed first.

"That's the man. I happen to know his schedule, we're going to intercept him and talk to him, he knows some things we need to. No going back, remember? Are you with me or not?" asked Anna, sharply.

"I won't ask. You know I'm right beside you, but I'm an old man and I'm not up to hand to hand any longer. Give me a weapon and I'm your man, but a Deputy Director will have at least eight Bodyguards in two guards with him, then the driver of his car and his personal Bodyguard. We'll have to kill them all to get him away and, if we do, Homeland Security will lock the whole city down to get him back and shoot first, with military-grade weaponry if they have too. Are you _sure_ about this?" he asked, needing to hear it.

"_Oh_ yes. I know someone cleaning house when I see it and all of this tracks back to Jason Bourne, we both know it. Somebody is out to cover themselves and they're willing to kill anyone in the way to get it done. I doubt it's a one-party effort, but you go with what you know if you have to start somewhere. Vosen likes the dark side and with Kramer's ear I guarantee you he knows what we need to know. As for weapons, leave that to me" said Anna, shifting in her seat in such a way that her hair briefly pressed into his face.

Most of the time he could ignore her exceptional physical beauty, aided by the fact that he was happily married with two teenage children he wouldn't deliberately hurt to save himself either pain or death. _Most_ of the time, but when he had silken hair attached to a body like hers literally shoved in his face like this...he breathed in deeply and tasted her scent, a delicious tang of almonds tinged with what seemed to be traces of sulphur and a hint of rosemary, probably her shampoo.

The sudden urge to run his hands across the muscle of her stomach and upper legs to see if she really was as smooth and strong as she seemed actually made his grip slacken for a moment, while the urge to kiss the back of her neck and taste that delicious chocolate skin with his tongue actually had him leaning forwards before he caught himself. What was he doing?! He _never_ reacted to another woman like this when he was with his family, never had...

"David...how long has it been for you since you've been alone for any real length of time with a beautiful young woman, away from your family?" asked Anna, gently. He almost sighed at that, how obvious had he been if she could spot it so easily?

"A long, long time, lets just say you were a girl then" he replied, trying and failing to clear his mind of what had gotten inside it. Dammit, he was thirty-odd years older than her and they were both adults. She was Cactus's little girl, what was _wrong_ with him?!

"I thought so. Look, it's not that I'm not flattered and, to be honest, the age difference really doesn't bother me, but I'm very..._particular_ about who I get that close to and Dad taught me better. Married men are strictly off-limits, besides which you're lonely, not horny. Your Wife and children are waiting for you to finish this, David, you know that better than anyone. You have a home to go back to and a family which needs you, I don't, not anymore" said Anna, shaking her head.

"Besides, think of it like this. The people we're up against used you, abused you and abandoned you, all to suit their own purposes, they have for almost forty years now and still would if they could work out a way. They've used me to kill because it's what I do and, in fact, I am far more than just competent at it. They are owed a couple of lifetime's worth of pain and suffering by the two of us. Don't you want to help me with that more than anything?" Anna asked, with a smirk.

His answering smile almost reached his ears it was so broad, as he was so suddenly reminded of why he and Marie had fitted together so well over all these years. Alone he was lethal, with her he was brilliant, with the potential for more, _she_ made him more than he was. He missed her every second, he always would, more than anything but their children.

Anna didn't say another word, she somehow knew she didn't need to. He just kept smiling, Marie had always been good with him that way, too...

_LA_

Hannah Corvay lay unconscious in a hospital bed, with monitoring pads attached to her chest under a light green gown and an IV line running painkillers into her left arm. Her vital signs were being monitored more because of the fact she had failed to regain consciousness in the twelve and some hours since she'd literally been dumped on the hospitals doorstep than because of her injuries, which were-seemingly-not severe.

Her dark hair was thin and dried out, her eyes were swollen shut and her lips were so puffed up from severe bruising that they had almost doubled in size. Bruising covered her face, chest and arms if she was examined closely enough, but no bones were broken. Blunt force trauma had been the cause of all of her injuries, but the pattern had been matched to fists alone-which meant someone had done all of the damage with their bare hands. That had led to the police being called, now they were just waiting for her to wake up so she could be interviewed.

The much older woman now standing by the bed, who was known as Jade by a few and, now, Helena Corvay, had already realised what the Doctor's had missed as she read through her Sisters Medical Chart. The required level of simple skill to do such massive injury without true lasting physical damage was on a level that only a professional Sadist, Torturer or very highly trained killer would know. The way the blows had been targeted, the exact amount of force behind them, just how close to the bone the strikes had landed...this had been a force interrogation carried out by a professional who liked to work with her hands.

The profile didn't fit Sydney Bristow and her known style and techniques, but it _did_ fit Julia Thorne's. Jade was one of maybe three people alive who knew the full truth about "Julia's" activities during Sydney's lost years, including just how far the woman had been willing to go to get the job done. Effective and efficiently applied violence had essentially been Julia Thorne's MO, as hard, harsh and dangerous as any Agent since the Cold War.

She'd been a brilliant Agent, a ruthless genius who was perfectly happy to get blood all over her hands, break down any door, physical or mental, sleep with whoever she had to and do whatever it took, without hesitation, to see her enemy broken, destroyed or just dead, even while never failing to complete the Mission. Julia's name alone had been enough, still was in places, to open doors and make certain arrangements, no questions asked, after just over a year of activity.

What had been going through Sydney Bristow's mind while she'd been "away" was impossible to imagine, but Jade's suspicion was that she'd cut loose of any restraints on her behaviour and actions as a result of being cut away, forcibly, from everything and everyone she knew. A new woman for a new life, most likely, one damaged enough and strong enough to handle what had happened to her, yet so different from Sydney Bristow nobody would ever suspect.

Julia Thorne had come out of nowhere and gone from nothing to a "Name" in so short a time it was, to quote the American expression, either incredible or some kind of ridiculous. The woman had been a phenomenon far more than a protégé of any sort, even her association with the Styx Sisters had only occurred because she'd wanted it to, everyone knew it. In five years the woman, the Agent, would have been able to write her own Contracts anywhere in the world, maybe in even less time than that. But she'd gone away...

It was a true pity, in reality, Julia and Jade had far more in common that Jade and Jack Bristow or Sydney Bristow ever had. She had few true friends, let alone allies, Julia could have been both-but she'd never truly existed. Now the woman who had worn her face was going to die, because that was what had to happen. That, Jade had _no_ regrets about, though, blood always came first.

"I'm sorry, who are you and what are you doing in here?" came a man's voice from behind her. She turned slightly and caught sight of a man in a Doctor's scrubs standing at the doorway to the room, silently running his face through the list of Doctors she'd checked up on before she'd arrived at the hospital. He was definitely a member of staff, good enough.

"I'm Hannah Corvay's Sister, I haven't seen her in years but she still has my number. I got a call yesterday telling me she'd been hurt so I came running. Thankfully, this doesn't look anywhere as near as bad as I thought it might be. Can you tell me anything else?" se replied, turning back to her Sister.

"It looks like you've already read about everything we know so far, Miss...?" asked the Doctor as he strode into the room. Young, maybe thirty years old, with thick dark brown hair, hazel eyes and a smooth face that made him look as though he was barely old enough to have outgrown acne. Slim and about five six he was closer to her build than most men's, but she had decades on the innocent young man, more of a child in her opinion, in terms of experience, particularly on the inside. Soft, sheltered child, she could only hope that his medical skills were superior to his evident maturity.

"Helena Corvay. I've been a Doctor over the years, in a sense, among other things, so I've picked up plenty. I have a question to ask, though?" she asked, raising an eyebrow as the Doctor came around to her side. He looked at her, clearly deciding whether or not he could trust her, then decided he could and nodded.

"Has she been examined for any form of sexual contact?" asked Jade, narrowing her eyes as she glanced over at the Doctor. He pursed his lips, almost looked away, then gathered his courage and looked her straight in the eyes.

"Yes, but she wasn't Raped, it was consensual. In fact, we're quite sure that she was with another woman maybe minutes before the attack took place. I trust this comes as no surprise to you?" he asked, a question which she knew was a test. If she didn't even know the truth about that much of her own Sisters life, the Doctor would likely call the police and report her even though her fake ID would stand up to official scrutiny.

"No, she...is easy either way, shall we say. Although she always chooses her own Partner. If she'd been attacked that way, it would have made things more complicated than they need to be. I presume the police asked you to keep those details Confidential?" replied Jade.

"They did, but family allows me to override that. Will you be staying in the city until she wakes up?" replied the Doctor.

"I'm not sure yet, I have business to attend to here that can't be put off. I'll do my best to be here, but I can't guarantee anything. Tell her the Old Girl dropped in one her if she wakes up and I'm not here, will you? She'll know what it means" replied Jade, to a slow nod from the Doctor before she left.

Work had always meant killing to her, even when she'd sold her body to pay for what she and her younger Sister needed to survive in the early days, when she was still young. She wasn't young any longer, not in any sense of the word, but all age had done was refine her skills and teach her new one's. It had been a little while since she'd had a taste, but now she was going to make up for that.

_APO_

Marshall was better at multi-tasking than almost anyone else he knew, it was a matter of pride for him as much as simple skill, but even he thought he'd finally tried too hard to do to many things at once when he found a face-front image of Toni Cummings staring at him through the security cameras mounted all around APO and close locations. He'd been running a search grid using multiple patterns across the whole of North America looking for the woman, since the phone call she'd made to Sydney had strongly suggested that she had critical Intel they needed, or knew where they could get it, but...

But, having her show up literally on the doorstop of APO, clearly deliberately showing her face to the cameras, was something he'd never even considered possible. He blinked, to check that he wasn't seeing things, ran the Facial Recognition software twice to be sure-then literally sprinted out of his office towards Sloane's, nearly bowling over two passing Agents.

He slammed into the door of Sloane's office with such force he almost rebounded, since Sloane had locked his door, but he looked up at the sound of impact and unlocked the doors with a switch, causing an off-balance Marshall to literally fall to the floor in front of him with a thud. Marshall scrambled to his feet without even thinking about it, to nervous to worry about embarrassment-but he still had to pause when he realised that Sloane was on the phone to someone.

"I see, thank you for the update, I'll get back to you as soon as I can" Sloane said, then he put the phone down and looked at Marshall, steepling his fingers on the desk in front of him. "What is it, Marshall?" he asked, slowly and carefully, seeing the state that the ever-excitable computer genius was in and knowing what was coming from long experience.

"Er, Mr Sloane, sir, this is crazy, it is so weird that you are not going to believe it-" Marshall began, but Sloane cut him off using just the look in his eyes. Sloane's eyes were as empty and cold as a reptiles when he wanted them to be, but normally he only used that look on someone in APO when they had done something seriously wrong. Marshall couldn't even begin to imagine what could be the problem with his work, but what Sloane said stopped him speaking almost instantly.

"Marshall, I just got off the phone with Director Chase. Dixon is dead, Dean Devlin is dead, Conklin Senior and Dr Panov are dead, Edward Norton is dead, Conklin's estate is a War Zone and we visibly have senior Government officials in this country being killed by a Military-trained professional Assassin as though he's trying to write a message using dead bodies. Deputy Director Landry has lost her personal assistant and fellow CIA Agent to the same Assassin. The Vietnamese Embassy of the USA has been physically destroyed by a bombing raid from our own planes which left no survivors and the Ambassador was assassinated before that. Reported personnel at the Embassy all recorded is ninety-three. I suggest that you just deliver your report and do not suggest that there is anything I would not believe after a week like this" said Sloane, sharply.

Marshall felt as though he'd taken a kidney punch followed by sledgehammer to the gut. His legs almost went under him, but an old refusal to show any weakness in front of Sloane kept him on his feet. He'd know about Dixon, of course, the attack on the Embassy had occurred in such a way it could not have failed to cross APO's screens. But the rest of it... He'd really thought they were keeping ahead of the Assassin. Now, it was clear the opposite was true.

"Toni Cumming's is standing on the station that leads to APO" said Marshall, uncharacteristically subdued. Sloane's eyes narrowed and he sat back, clasping his hands in front of him.

"I see. Tell Agent Vaughn to meet her and escort her to an APO Safe House, I expect a full debriefing and account of everything she knows as soon as practical. I want an interrogation team assembled at his chosen location before he gets there, full security lockdown until we know what we're dealing with. Tell Agent Vaughn to be _clear_ that we are only offering our protection because she is useful to us now. If she causes us any difficulties at all, she'll be dumped alone and brain damaged in North Africa if necessary once we have what we need. Anything else?" asked Sloane.

"Just one thing. Agent Bristow called, he asked for a full Medical Team response to meet them at the airport when they land, he thinks Nadia's getting weaker after they had to fight their way out of the Embassy and is worried she might suffer another heart attack if she doesn't receive proper medical attention in a hospital very soon" said Marshall, which caused Sloane's eyebrows to rise, as close as the older man came to appearing visibly shocked.

Jack Bristow never asked for a Medical team to meet an Op's team straight off the aircraft unless someone was dying or dead, it just didn't happen. Sloane also well knew Jack simply didn't exaggerate, if he said someone was going to die the best you could do to help, more often than not, was make sure their Will was up to date. You would have to be very lucky to beat the odds where Jack was concerned-in the same way you would have to be very lucky to beat the Devil at a game of Poker. For all of that, Sloane didn't show the slightest trace of emotion on his face or in his eyes.

"They'll be waiting on the tarmac. Get back to work, Marshall, the only way this ends is with Bourne in Custody or dead" said Sloane, his emphasis on the last word he spoke telling clearly what his preferences were. As Marshall ran back to his computers, he found it hard to argue with Sloane's choice of which way was best to stop Bourne.

_Los Angeles International Airport_

It was amazing what the most basic physical alterations of face and body could do to fool the most sophisticated detection systems, Jason Bourne had learnt years ago, when Marie had still been alive. Fill out your cheeks, sculpt your face, darken your eyes and skin, loose height and gain weight, walk with a slight limp, make sure you were never directly face-to-face with any monitor of any sort? He was living proof it worked.

He finished stowing his carry-on bag in the overhead compartment-he had no other luggage, of course-sat back in his chair, fastened his seat belt as the plan began to taxi and relaxed, all the tension draining out of him as though a switch had been thrown. A good Agent had a way to let go of nervous tension, relax and even sleep at any and every opportunity, because there was _no_ telling when that opportunity would arrive. You had to take what you could get when you could get when you could get it, then find a way to function with what you had.

_Sleep is a weapon_, he knew that, the old man had taught him. He was simply better at using it than most.

/End of Chapter 37./


	38. Chapter 38

Legal disclaimers: see earlier Parts.

Disclaimers: see earlier Parts.

**The Last Day**

_Havana, Cuba, 2005_

Anna Espinosa's eyes blinked open, shut, blinked open again and stayed that way. Every muscle in her body ached, every bone creaked and every single bruise screamed at her mind as though she was being beaten with a baseball bat-again-even as consciousness returned once again.

After the pain came the belated realisation that she was naked, hanging upside down and sticky with her own blood, fresh and drying. She had open wounds all over her body, inflicted by knives, whips, chains, people's fingernails and even teeth. She suspected that she was in shock, at least on some level, because the kind of pain she _should_ have been suffering with such massive injuries should have left her incapable. Instead, her mind seemed clear.

More of her memory returned and she winced as she recalled being held down by dozens of hands as fists, feet and other instruments of assault, including some sharp ones, dug into her body harder and deeper with each blow. She'd screamed despite herself, pain tearing its way out of her throat in awful animals howls as her vision flared red and then went abruptly black as her abused body could stand no more.

She had dim recollections after that, she'd been in and out of consciousness for she didn't know how long. Sharp new pain had brought her back briefly and she'd woken up long enough to witness their attackers tearing her clothes away and grabbing at her body, laughing, utterly uncaring of any pain to her.

The next thing she recalled was being slapped awake only to have what she'd known was strong alcohol forced down her throat, so much that she'd almost choked three or four times. She'd finally vomited, unable to take in any more, which had led them to beat her unconscious again.

The last time had been when she came to being dragged into the warehouse she was now in by her hair, her bloody, battered form covered with mud and muck of all descriptions. She'd been put in some kind of chain lift which had been looped around her wrists and ankles, barely aware and weak as a newborn child, before they'd hoisted her up to three feet above the floor upside down. The rush of blood to her head had knocked her out again-and then she came to the now...

She heard screams, far off, smelt the whiff of smoke past the stink of dried oil that filled the battered old building she was in. It was black as Hell on a dark night in the structure, but a little light was coming through doors which weren't perfectly fitted and chinks in the walls and roof which had to have been caused by decay. She got glimpses of rotting straw, wooden walls held together by steel bars hammered into place, wooden pillars thick with rot holding up the roof...

She'd-_they'd_ been imprisoned in a _barn_? In the middle of riots in Cuba, following yet another failed attempt by the CIA to create an uprising against Castro?!

From what she remembered before they'd been captured Havana was effectively a War Zone, with the Military on the streets shooting on sight anyone not obeying the Curfew while buildings burned and thousands rioted against the Government. The streets were barricaded in places with wrecked cars and buses, civilians with firearms were shooting each other as much as at troops and besieged police and Molotov Cocktails seemed to be the order of the day.

To call it a civil disturbance was like referring to the Second World War as a bad dream. Chaos and anarchy ruled until law and order was restored, which was what had led to their capture and abuse. They'd thought-_she'd_ thought that just two more women in a crowd of thousands wouldn't be seen, let alone noticed by anyone who mattered. She'd been right, in the worst way-the men who'd taken them hadn't cared who they were, they'd just wanted young female flesh to play with and they'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Pulling weapons hadn't done them any good, unless they were willing to risk shooting themselves as the crowd surged in all directions at once, making simply aiming a superhuman feat. Once the group had gotten in close it was all over, regardless, they hadn't cared what state either woman was in when they dragged them down. She'd suspected that even alive was optional after seeing the mad joy on their faces as they'd nearly beaten her to death...

Her mind finally caught up with her as she took in the broad mass of drying blood on the rough wooden ground beneath her. She'd been strung up at least a couple of hours, given the fact it was dark now excepting moonlight, but for all of the evident injuries she'd suffered and the mess beneath her the hadn't damaged anything vital or she'd have bled out by now. Then she saw the second blood trail, which was visibly still fresh and growing...

Her eyes tracked it back, suspecting what she was going to see but needing to be sure. She had to twist in the chains to such a degree that she felt her skin start to tear before she got a good look at the source-and she caught her breath, despite herself, at what she saw.

Sydney Bristow-currently, apparently, a woman who genuinely believed her name to be Julia Thorne-was lying slumped on the floor near the double doors. She was lying on her right side, with her left leg seemingly forced back behind her, her arms both sides of her head, her hands limp. Her eyes were shut, her whole body limp and Anna honestly couldn't tell if she was even still breathing.

Hair torn from Sydney's scalp in a fight was still lying by her head on the floor, while there was just enough light for Anna to see the blood on Sydney's nails. Sydney was naked, like her, so Anna could see what could only be a stab wound in her right shoulder, a misshapen area of chest on her lower right side which could only be broken ribs. Bite wounds were evident in Sydney's breasts and, Anna knew from experience given what she could see, Sydney had been repeatedly throttled given the odd swelling around her jaw and collarbone.

Worse than any of that were three particular wounds, though. Anna distantly recalled hearing Sydney screaming, for she had no idea how long, the guttural laugh of a number of men's voices and what could only have been the sounds of fists on flesh and breaking bone. Sydney had fought like hell and gone down fighting, but it hadn't been nearly enough.

The abrasions and torn skin between her legs, right over the groin, added to the fresh blood still coming from the injury told it's own story. Sydney had been raped, likely gang-Raped, left so badly hurt she was probably bleeding inside. Then there was the knife wound to her throat, a broad and deep slash wound of the kind an amateur would make trying to cut another human beings throat. Blood drenched Sydney's neck and chest from that alone, forming into a pool she lay still in around and beneath her even as she lay still. The last wound, one even Anna couldn't quite take in, was the knife sticking out of Sydney's chest right over her heart...

Anna knew when she saw that she was going to die. The Covenant was going to kill her for letting their prize Project die, let alone like this. If she was very, very lucky they'd just shoot her in the head and dump her body where it would never be found. If she wasn't, they'd flay her alive and cut her into small pieces while she was still alive before feeding the remains to wild animals.

Even if, by some impossible Miracle, Sydney survived her injuries, not even an Agent as professional and resilient as she was would ever recover from an assault like this, Anna wouldn't have herself. Pain and loss were to be expected, they came with the job description when you were a Spy, but what had happened here... Dead or alive, "Julia" would never, ever be the same after this.

A thud echoed from the doors, then another of increased force. Then a car engine roared-and what looked like an old jet-black Hearse backed through the closed doors with such force the heavy doors came off of their hinges. The doors out of the way, the car stopped sharply and Cole stepped out of the drivers seat, gun in hand, in his black suit and tie sharp, white shirt crisp, as ever. He looked like Death itself stepping out of a Hearse dressed for a Funeral backed by moonlight with a weapon in his hand.

If he wasn't a part of the Styx Sisters team, she would have simply stopped breathing there and then on seeing him. His presence meant she actually stood a chance of getting out of this nightmare alive-then Talia stepped out of the passenger seat, the back of the car opening as Selene slid smoothly to the floor.

Talia, her hair bound up tightly against her head, was wearing a form-fitting jet black bodysuit, with armoured gloves and body armour built into the uniform. Sheathed combat knives were fastened about her forearms, two handguns in holsters were around her upper thighs, a combat webbing harness settled around her waist containing gear and ammo. A remarkably thin and sharp sword-length blade ran up her back, it's silver hilt appearing above her right shoulder. Talia had had the weapon custom made, that was all Anna knew about it.

Selene had a pair of Roman Gladius sheathed one to each hip and a specialised holster at the base of her back which held both of her handguns and a small knife. She wore a combat webbing harness around her waist like Selene, but that was where the similarity of their uniforms ended. Selene's uniform was more armour than clothing, her silver-grey "shirt" was plate mail reinforced with Kevlar, as were her leggings. Her boots were toughened leather tipped with steel, while she wore gauntlets rather than gloves which had knuckles tipped with tiny blades which could cut metal-Anna had seen it done. A low-riding mask of the same colouring covered the lower half of her face, while her hair was in a tight ponytail down her back.

Three of the five founding members of the Styx Sisters, one of them many times over the most dangerous, all arrived intact and looking as though they'd passed through the chaos everywhere unscathed because they simply beyond such things. Anna wasn't sure whether or not to be glad or terrified of their arrival-but she knew for sure the moments she saw the expression on Talia's face when she saw "Julia".

Y

The first thing Selene saw when they broke through the doors of the barn they'd finally managed to track their missing members to was Anna Espinosa, hanging upside down nude in chain, bloody and battered. She actually stopped to admire the view for a few seconds, since Anna was worth a good look physically even if she could hardly stand the woman personally. If Anna ever stopped thinking of herself as some kind of dark Goddess the world was supposed to revolve around, maybe that would change...

Then the gleam of much paler skin lit by moonlight on the floor caught her attention. She looked down-and her heart skipped a beat as she took in Julia's terribly abused body. She breathed in sharply, then looked over at Talia, who she knew was much more fond of Julia than was really wise given just what they all did...

Talia's expression was impossible to describe, her dark eyes so empty Selene didn't dare meet them. The older woman wasn't moving at all, she wasn't even breathing, but Selene knew better. She'd once seen Talia go from standing still to Butcher in less than a second, six men dead from a single gunshot wound each in less time than it took to tell, the sevenths still-beating heart punched right out of his chest in Talia's hand in front of him.

Talia knew Death like a Lover and practised her skills to the point that she could kill people in her sleep and not be disturbed. She wielded any weapon at all like she'd been using it for ten years and knew it backwards and forwards as soon as she picked it up, even if she'd never seen it before. She didn't loose fights and never gave a second chance, nor did she ever need one herself. Most importantly, for all of the fact she was amongst the most passionate and fiery women Selene had ever met, Talia never, EVER lost her temper. But the look on her face now...

"Lei è morto, lei la femmina stupida" Talia said in her native Italian, her voice simply devoid of emotion, as she looked straight at Anna. Suddenly she was walking forwards, drawing out her blade in a smooth, graceful arc before she rolled the weapon over in her hand. She'd do it, Selene knew, but she didn't even know if she _should_ stop Talia. Anna had sworn she could keep Sydney safe, keep them both safe, but she'd failed in her assignment utterly and completely.

Surprisingly enough, it was Cole who stopped Talia without even using words, from his position by Julia's prostrate, unmoving body. He slapped his hand against the wooden floor sharply, the crack of meat on wood causing Talia's head to snap around. He held a hand over Julia's mouth and gestured, by means of showing rising and falling movements, that Julia was still breathing and so still alive. That made Talia sheath her blade and almost jog over to Cole and Julia.

Selene beat Talia to Julia's side, where she checked Julia's pulse for good measure. Slow but steady, just like her breathing, but the skin she touched was cold and clammy and slick with blood. At best, Julia was in shock. At worst, she'd lost so much blood she was on the verge of bleeding out and there would be nothing they could do to save her in the field.

Talia ran a practised eye over Julia's body and shook her head, clearly not liking what she saw. "The knife isn't deep enough to have wounded her heart, but the chest muscles will be all torn up and I think the attacker nicked a vein at least. The shoulder wound isn't deep enough to be more than an inconvenience, but she's loosing too much blood. If her throat had been cut properly she'd be dead, but the cuts deep enough she's going to need Plastic Surgery to get rid of the scar. Cole, I need bandages and a suture kit if you can find one, any antibiotics too" said Talia, switching back to English.

Cole was back at the Hearse and digging through the car for anything useful by the time Talia finished speaking. It only took him a few seconds to find what there was, but it wasn't much. He returned bearing Panadol tablets, a single bandage roll and a packet of plasters. Talia just shook her head, sighed and got to work.

"¡Ayúdeme, alguno de ustedes, o yo juran que sobreviviré este matar justo alguno de ustedes!" Anna snarled suddenly, trying to wrench free of her restraints and only succeeding in setting herself rocking back and forth. Her words made Selene wonder if she realised Talia spoke Spanish, since some people would gut you just for the suggestion of insult, let alone the actual words-and Talia was definitely one of them.

Talia didn't pause in binding up Julia's wounds, doing what she could with the throat wound and shoulder before turning her attention to the knife. While still looking at the knife, her eyes twitched, then she slowly turned to look at Anna dead on.

"Анна, прямо сейчас Вы даже не стоите мое презрение, уже не говоря о моем внимании. Просите, что это не изменяется, или Вы проведете десятилетие, прося умирать каждый день" Talia snapped back in flawless Russian, even down to the accent. Then, padded bandage pressed against Julia's chest, she slowly, carefully pulled the knife out, even as Anna blinked in astonishment-or fear, Selene wasn't sure.

Blood immediately began to flow out of the wound, thick, heavy blood, but Talia was just as quick at binding the wound and applying pressure to slow down the bleeding. Without being asked Cole took over as Talia stood, the knife still in her hand with Julia's blood dripping from the blade. Talia slowly walked over to Anna, who had gone utterly still-and dug a line of blood across Anna's belly with the knife before dropping it right beneath her. Then she drew her blade, cleanly cut through Anna's chain bindings with a single strike and sheathed it even as Anna fell helplessly to the floor with a yelp of pain.

Talia grabbed Anna's head as soon as she'd landed and knelt as she wrenched the other woman half upright, so they were eye to eye. Then she shook Anna so hard that the other woman's teeth rattled to make sure she had her attention.

"We own you now, woman, never forget that" said Talia, softly, her voice so cold that Selene felt a chill. Then she dropped Anna to squirm free or not and strode back towards Julia, shaking her head while snarling in barely controlled anger where Anna couldn't see her...

/End of Chapter 37. All Reviews welcomed./


	39. Chapter 39

Legal disclaimers: see earlier Parts.

Disclaimers: see earlier Parts.

**The Last Day**

_Berlin, 2007, one day ago_

The man striding through the main streets of Berlin was surrounded, although not obviously, by no less than six Bodyguards who were making a point of not standing out, at least as far as they could. All of them were big men, excepting the one woman, solid, muscular and, clearly, very fit. They were dressed in a variety of styles, four casually, one man in a sharp black suit and tie with white shirt and the woman in a floor-length light-blue dress. None of them would have stood out in a crowd, which was the point. But all of them were armed, which was also the point.

The man they were guarding wasn't young, although he looked older than he actually was, a result of the stress he had been under recently. He was short, barely over five feet tall, slender and almost completely lacking in muscle about his thin frame. His thinning hair had gone from light brown to grey to white over the past twenty years, while strangely intense dark blue eyes hadn't changed at all. Darkened areas of his skin showed his advancing age, he was seventy years old now after all, but the heavy tan he had maintained his whole life had damaged his skin to make him look ten years older, with wrinkles and flaking areas suggesting ill health he didn't suffer from as well.

The old man was dressed in a light-grey suit, with a pale cream shirt and red tie, but the odd shape of his "chest" told anyone who knew what to look for that he was wearing Body Armour. The sweat that cool summer weather seemed to be dragging out of him was an oddity, too, as was the fact that his eyes were never still, constantly darting around, his head moving far too much to suggest casual observation or simple nerves of some kind.

His name was Jeremiah Kosolev and he was a Retired Intelligence Agent for an organisation which had never officially existed, since if his former Employers had been traceable then the history of the Cold War would have required substantial amendment. He and some few others had been a greater part than any historian could or would ever know of why the USSR had failed as both a State and as a social "experiment" over the past forty years and more, but he was the last remnant of that group now. The organisation he had worked for had actually dated back to 1918, but that secret would die with him.

Once, Jeremiah would have dealt with the situation himself and Cleaned up any loose ends just for completions sake. Twenty years ago the situation wouldn't have_ been _a situation, as a younger man he had always been the one to get what needed doing done, with his own hands where necessary, to make sure the job was done right. He'd been a Name, although not a Face, that people took poison to avoid encountering and killed loved one's because of simple fear of when ordered to.

In his time, he'd been known as a Creature more than a Man for his total lack of Humanity when dealing with both people and Projects. He'd condemned the innocent and sided with the guilty, viewed atrocity as necessity and carried out actions considered so repulsive by some people that more than one had died of sheer fright from simply watching him work. For all the impact doing all of these things and worse had on him he might as well have been dead, most said. He didn't say a thing, when asked, there was nothing to say when you had a job to do, just necessary actions to be carried out. Why would that bother him?

He had never expected or planned to live for as long as he had, though, especially once the job had been done, so to still be alive and actually retired had been no small surprise to him. He'd always expected someone he had crossed or worked for over the decades to hunt him down and butcher him long before he got old. It hadn't happened, so he presumed his work had been even more successful than he had imagined. That had, eventually, caused him to relax a little and accept that old age and, probably, illness were what was going to kill him...

Then he had heard that Jason Bourne was coming to kill him, after the collapse of the reactivated Treadstone Project when the new Bourne had first of all gone MIA, then reappeared as a Rogue and proceeded to bring about the Projects final end. Director Conklin's assassination had simply made sure of it. Jeremiah had been a part of both Treadstone Projects, the original in the seventies and the later one in the nineties. He'd known what he was getting into, but the profit had been worth the price-now the result was out to kill him.

He'd become too used to taking it easy, he'd stopped expecting Death to be there all the time whenever he opened his eyes-if he even did. He'd let himself go enough that he'd allowed himself to develop the one thing he'd always known would kill him-fear. Fear of not living to see the next day, fear of dying, violently or otherwise, fear of not having certain things he desired. Fear, the killer that slaughtered anyone who cared...

Now he was afraid he was going to die one day very soon, shot in the head and heart if he was lucky, by a professional Assassin he had trained to be an exceptionally capable killing machine. He'd always known the ultimate necessity of a superior Agent was that he, or she, be capable of not only anything which needed to be done, but also that the Agent not be hampered by any sort of code, moral, psychological or otherwise. He never had been-and it had served him well. That was what Treadstone had wanted from him-and he'd delivered. His own Mentor had taught him what he had taught them...

Now that fact was coming for him and, of all things, he didn't want to die. A lifetime of not caring at all and he was afraid of what could come next. He didn't really know how he'd been stupid enough to let himself slip to the level he had, but he had to deal with the situation as it presented itself. That meant moving to a safe location, pulling his people in tight around him, battening down the hatches and letting the right people know. That, he needed to do now.

First of all, he waited until they reached the warehouse and he was secure inside the office. Then he pulled his satellite phone from his jacket pocket and entered a number from memory.

"Hello, Arvin" he began, his voice rough, his accent strong German after twenty years living in the country. "It's been a long time..."

_APO_

Sloane had suspected that he would be hearing from his old "friend" Jeremiah Kosolev for a while, since it wasn't a secret-to him and Jack, at least-that Kosolev had been involved in the Creation and training of both Jason Bourne's. Since it was also evident that the younger Bourne was intent on slaughtering everyone who had been directly connected to Project Treadstone, past and present, for whatever his reasons were, the old mans name had been on the list since the start.

Attempts to track him down or get a contact number had been failures, though, since Kosolev had gone to ground when the USSR collapsed and had rarely even been seen since. He'd never been caught on camera, so no visual ID was possible unless the Agent or individual in question had physically seen him, on top of which his voice was _always_ electronically disguised when he used electronic communications of any sort, so Voice Print analysis was impossible, too.

In the twenty-first century, with all of the technology at the disposal of Agents of the CIA, let alone the US Government, it should have been impossible to totally disappear, let alone leave no trail of any sort, but Kosolev had done it. The only other person who Sloane knew had accomplished the feat was the Raven-and she'd had to fake her own death so effectively half a dozen different investigative teams form the same number of countries had all agreed she was definitely dead.

Kosolev had just walked away and never been seen again. But then he had had a unique Mentor, a legendary Soviet Agent who had fought the Nazi's in WWII and gone on to Korea and Vietnam, after Defecting to the USA in the fifties, before disappearing in the mid sixties herself. At least, that was what he'd heard, since he hadn't joined the CIA until 1970 himself and CIA Archives didn't go back before 1949 and the CIA's official creation.

For all of his service to the USA before he had turned to the Alliance, Sloane had never had access to OSS records of WWII American intelligence activities, so he had no way of confirming that Kosolev's Mentor had actually existed, let alone whether or not the individual in question deserved his or her reputation. The Agent's Defection and subsequent service to the USA had been so highly Classified that no written records had even been kept, or photographs-at least not any that Sloane had ever even heard rumour of. He didn't even know if the Agent had been male or female, just a Call Sign: "Blood".

For all of that, though, no matter what forces had shaped Kosolev into the man he was, someone had trained him to become the Agent he had been-and had done so good a job that the man himself was more dark legend than fact even after four decades and some as an Agent. Kosolev was rumoured to be responsible for more death and destruction across the world, particularly involving USSR interests and resources, than the entire CIA had managed in a decade of conflict during the Cold War.

Rumours in the ether had even placed him in Dallas in 1963, but Sloane tended to discount that. Too obvious for a professional like Kosolev, if the man had wanted a figure as high-profile as the President of the USA dead he would have choked on fast food or been found dead from an Overdose, nothing which would have lead back to Kosolev himself, even by chance.

He should have been surprised that Kosolev had his Direct Line number for APO, but he wasn't. He'd have been surprised if the man didn't. He'd only met Kosolev twice in his life and knew that other people kept secrets, Kosolev just dealt with them. If Kosolev wanted something done or someone found that was what would happen, it was the "Why?" one should worry about, not the "What?"

"Hello, Jeremiah, it has been a long time, I agree, almost twenty years if I remember. I presume this is business?" Sloane replied, locking his office doors and flicking off the monitoring systems of his office before he replied. The last thing he needed was anyone at all overhearing the conversation, since unnecessary questions would be the only result of anyone hearing the unusual name of one of his "Contacts". The slight hum on the line let him know the call was being scrambled and probably encrypted.

"_Eighteen, East Berlin 1989, Arvin, but you're right, this is not a social call. I'm being hunted by someone I believe has somehow managed to track me, a former CIA Asset who intends my Execution. I may be an old man, but I am quite certain that the CIA has no idea of my location, which leads me to my first question: have I been Sanctioned by any force I should know about?_" asked Kosolev, asking what Sloane was quite certain was as good as a rhetorical question.

People like Kosolev knew when people were out to kill them, more often than not the who as well. The old man was asking the question now to impress on Sloane the fact that if an Assassin was after him who could actually find him matters which Kosolev was part of could still come to light, even decades later.

"No, none, most people think you're dead, the rest are either too scared to act or still respect you too much to move against the legend. The individual in question is acting on his own, entirely alone as best can be told so far. It seems certain names still carry considerable weight in the right circles" Sloane replied, answering as honestly as he could. He knew better than to lie to Kosolev, or even try. The man always knew.

"_Not that much, a Myth carries less weight than a Name and people know what happens if you look for me. He's being pushed in the right direction by somebody who has feelers out that have reached me. That doesn't happen, Arvin, nobody is that close to me, nobody who can or would talk, something greater is happening here. You know how I am about secrets, Arvin, I __**will**__ find out who is doing this, I just don't know if I'll find out in time. So, I'm calling you_" said Kosolev. His last words made Sloane blink.

"I'm afraid I don't follow, Jeremiah. I suspect that the individual has access to sources and resources we haven't managed to uncover or even get a grasp on yet, but in all likelihood you stand a better chance of uncovering just what is going on than we do. I can follow up any lines of enquiry you may give me or aim me towards, of course, but why are you calling me directly?" he replied, trying not to sound puzzled, even though he was.

"_I'm going to tell you two things, Arvin, that you will be killed just for having knowledge of, by your President, with his bare hands in the Oval Office if necessary. Listen carefully_" said Kosolev, which made Arvin's mind focus to needle point on the conversation. If there was one thing he was ultimately good at keeping to himself and dealing with, it was secrets. He knew more about secrets than even Jack Bristow did, he kept things even Jack would never know about to himself. That wasn't just the way it had to be, it was who he _was_, secrets formed and informed everything he said and did.

"You have my complete attention. I assume that none of this is to ever appear anywhere except in my memory?" he replied, to the sound of the slightest of chuckles from Kosolev.

"_What I'm going to tell you will only be of use in the event of my death, Arvin, so what you do with it is entirely up to you. The first thing is this: I am currently in Berlin, coordinates to follow on the end of this phone call. If this information reaches the CIA everyone who learns it will be killed, but I want a face-to-face conversation with you, so get your team in play and to my position within twenty-four hours or I will be in the wind again. Then what I have to tell you will be nothing_" said Kosolev.

Sloane almost dropped the phone, Kosolev never, ever asked for a face-to-face meeting and he _never_ gave away his location. For him to be willing to do so now meant that Bourne was already close to Kosolev and that Kosolev was concerned enough about his presence and activities to reach out and make arrangements in case of his own death. Given the old mans history, whatever he was up to could open up a can of worms dating back to Stalin's time, at least, maybe longer.

"I see, we'll be there. The second thing?" Sloane asked, quietly.

"_My Mentors real name is Anya Aliyanovna Romanoff, Arvin. Remember these dates: July 15__th__ 1918 Yekaterinberg and June 7__th__ 1927 Venice. It doesn't matter that you don't know what I'm talking about, knowing that much will be enough to force them to let you see her Personnel File, or the Russian version if you want, or both. Do not let ANYBODY else see you with access to that information, Arvin, I would advise you to only read what you need to know in a Black Room which locks from the inside. Don't worry about the files having been destroyed, when you get access you'll see why they haven't been_" said Kosolev, sharply.

"...Romanoff? Yekaterinberg in 1918? Jeremiah, I'm no student of history going so far back into the twentieth century, but that name is an exception. Just what are you getting me involved in by telling me about this?" asked Sloane.

"_There's no more for me to tell, Arvin, her secrets are her own and I have very little time left. I'll see you soon_" said Kosolev, then he hung up. Sloane tried to redial, but of course there wasn't even a record of the call, let alone a contact number. He sighed and shook his head, turned the monitoring devices for his office back on and looked up just in time to see Sydney entering APO. He unlocked his office doors and dialled the jet carrying Jack, Nadia and Weiss, needing to make one more call before he got moving himself.

_Over the Pacific Ocean_

Jack, tough as he was, wasn't a young man and, as an old soldier, knew just how to get vital rest as and when available. By the time they'd managed to get out of Vietnamese airspace safely, following their brutal battle to first of all survive and then escape both the Embassy and Vietnam itself, Jack had been so exhausted he'd been almost turning grey. He'd been drugged beforehand, which had been what had allowed his Abduction, he'd explained to Weiss and Nadia once Nadia had woken up again.

Where he'd disappeared to he wouldn't say, except to state that he had received some valuable intelligence, remarkably considering the circumstances, which he had to discuss with Sloane and Director Chase face-to-face due to just how sensitive it was. No form of electronic monitoring of any sort could be allowed to even possibly pick up on what they were going to discuss-and that was where it ended. Jack wouldn't say any more even in the cabin of a CIA plane specially swept for bugs.

He'd gone from that to drinking an entire litre bottle of water, which had helped him get his strength back and relax somewhat, then he'd sat back in a chair designed for reclining and gone to sleep. Nadia, still lying back on a similar chair herself, weakened and not in the best of health, had just smiled at the sight and fallen asleep herself soon afterwards. At least she was asleep this time, Weiss was sure, rather than unconscious as a result of pain and injury.

Unconsciousness was the body and minds way of saying "Stop" because the individual simply couldn't stand any more physical or mental damage, let alone both. Sleep was the opposite, that was what signalled the healing process had begun and showed that recovery had begun. After what had happened to Nadia she needed plenty, so Weiss had made up his mind to do anything he could to make sure she got enough rest once they were back in LA. Maybe he could even get her to let him help her become more relaxed...?

The cockpit phone buzzed to get his attention abruptly. He started to rise to answer it-only to almost fall over backwards in shock as Jack walked past him to do so, gone from deeply asleep to wide awake and alert in less time than it took to tell. While Weiss watched, open-mouthed until he remembered to close his jaws, Jack took a brief phone call before hanging up and walking back to his seat.

"That was Sloane, they have a lead on the Assassin and are re-routing us to Berlin. The pilots will give us a call when we're half an hour out, I suggest you try and get some rest in the meantime Agent Weiss" said Jack, then he lay back and was out to the world in seconds again.

Weiss stared at Jack, shook his head, sighed and rubbed his eyes. How Jack could sleep when they were after someone like Jason Bourne was beyond him, his nerves would keep him going until either the job was done or he was sure they were safe. Aboard a plane, to him, just wasn't that...

_APO_

"Hey, Syd, back in action?" asked Vaughn, clapping her on the shoulder with a friendly smile on his face-and a more than friendly look in his eyes. He had to wonder what she'd been doing since he'd last seen her, she looked...different, in a way which was hard to pin down. More sure of herself, perhaps? Whatever it was, she was carrying herself in such a way that she was emphasising her natural beauty and dancers body to his eyes in a way which was even more than usually alluring, which was saying something.

Sydney had been the most beautiful woman in the world to him from the day he'd met her, even when he'd been surrounded by beautiful women on Missions and been required to flirt with beauties who could have had any man in a room full of State leaders with a word and a smile. He had a silver tongue and a smile to kill for when he wanted to use them, with his natural good looks and easy charm he could have had any woman he wanted. But Sydney, he knew, was and always had been the woman for him. Even if, one day, he died because of her, or despite her...

"Oh yes, looking forwards to it. How are you, Vaughn, still healing?" asked Sydney, in reply.

"Ouch. Yes, sorry, still on the injured reserve list. Here if you need me, though" he replied, resisting the urge to draw her in close just so he could breathe in her scent and feel the smooth skin of her face against the stubble on his own. That was before he heard Sloane step out of his office, though.

"You may still be recovering from your injuries, Agent Vaughn, but as of this moment you and Agent Bristow are on a plane to Berlin with me. We have a man to meet and an Assassin to stop. This is an intelligence gathering operation, not a combat mission, so get what you need together and be ready to go in five minutes. Jack, Nadia and Weiss will be meeting us there. Go" said Sloane, then he moved to prepare himself.

Sydney shot a glance at Vaughn, but all he could do was shrug in silence. Yet again Sloane's "Contacts" had come through for him, it would seem...

/End of Chapter 38. All Reviews welcomed./


	40. Chapter 40

Legal disclaimers: see earlier Parts.

Disclaimers: see earlier Parts.

**The Last Day**

_Paris, France, 2005_

Julia Thorne hadn't been to Paris since her "Birth", but she didn't appreciate the beauty of the country alone as much as she did when she was with Vaughn. Vaughn. who spoke flawless French with an accent that didn't even turn heads in Paris and made a point of showing her everything he knew about passion, in a very special way, every time they came to the city for more than a day visit or a Mission. She missed him, she probably would for however long she was apart from him, no matter what she'd seen that day...

She _still_ wasn't sure what to make of what she'd seen, in fact. A young blonde woman-research had identified her as Lauren Reed, an NSA Agent-had been with him, clearly intimately, on the one day she'd laid eyes on him in over a year now. They'd been on a Date, she'd been able to tell that just on sight, he cared for her, she knew Vaughn well enough to know that from the look in his eyes, the expression on his face...

But, did Vaughn really owe her so much that he should put his life on hold for over a year after her death, just on the possibility she could somehow have survived? She'd seen him and the others assembled on the beach the day they put "her" ashes out to sea, her Father looking so empty-eyed it was as though everything left of the man he had been had been torn out by force with her "death".

Dixon...he'd looked almost as bad as he had the day he'd had to bury his Wife, Diane, with his children by his side. Given that loss had nearly killed him, she knew something had fundamentally shifted inside him.

Excepting his Wife, Daughter and Son, nobody meant more to Dixon in the world than she, Sydney Bristow, did. Now he'd lost two mainstays of his life, his children's Mother and a Partner he'd trusted with his life and secrets for a big chunk of a decade. It would change him, she knew that, but how she didn't dare even try to predict how. She wouldn't blame him at all if he simply walked away after everything, but hoped he wouldn't.

Marshall had kept himself together until they'd said their goodbyes, then he'd just sat down, started crying and been unable to stop. Surprisingly, the one who'd comforted him was Jack, with a simple hand on his shoulder. It seemed to help.

Weiss had looked as though he'd lost a member of his family and didn't know what to say or do. Unable to do anything else, apparently, he'd done his duty, said what was required and spent a lot of time staring into the distance, as though hoping to find answers there.

Sloane was, as ever, simply impossible to read. He could have been considering Genocide for all she could tell from his expression, or he could have been hiding secrets she'd never guess at unless she tripped over them. But, he'd been there, even though she knew Jack would have immediately suspected him in her disappearance. Apparently, he'd proved himself to Jack somehow.

Vaughn... Vaughn had looked as though he'd visited Hell. He'd been clean-shaven and well dressed in a good suit, but he'd been pale, seemed to have trouble staying on his feet. His face had been so empty of any form of expression that she knew he'd passed beyond the point of being able to feel anything but fear and anger at what had happened. He was burnt out from the inside out, a shell of the man she'd known, loosing her had done more damage than putting a bullet in him would have...

No, she couldn't blame him for wanting to move on and find a way to exist, to survive beyond her. But she'd have waited for _him_, even if she'd seen a body like he had "Hers". She'd have scoured the entire world to be sure, kicked over every stone, stared into every shadow and "Talked" to whoever she had to. She'd never have stopped until she was sure, ever, that simply wasn't in her. Her Father had taught her that...

She sighed, breathed in and out slowly, shook her head. Paris on a rainy day, grey clouds shading out the sun, winds pelting walls, windows, roofs and roads with rain and sometimes hailstones, the odd rumble of thunder. The half-open balcony doors of her hotel room let in gusts on occasion, whipping curtains and blinds around, rain making the carpet damp, but she enjoyed the fresh air, the freedom of the rain and wind.

Even seated on her bed directly opposite the doors, though, the wind raising the hairs on her legs and arms around her hip-length dark green dressing gown, she still had trouble pushing the nightmares away as she looked out into the wild, dull day. Although nightmares was barely a strong enough word.

She could still hear the laughter of the men in her ears as they tore her clothes away, grabbed her body as she screamed with bruising force, sometimes even drawing blood. She could still feel every one of the punches to the face she'd taken until she'd been left too weak to fight and several of the men had taken turns forcing her mouth open and "kissing" her forcibly, one nearly biting her tongue off for the hell of it. Then they'd wrenched her legs apart so hard that she'd felt something tear...

She still couldn't remember exactly what had happened next, didn't _want_ to remember, but the injuries she'd suffered told their own story. She genuinely couldn't remember getting her throat cut, though, or being stabbed in the heart, facts she'd discovered when she'd regained a sort-of consciousness to discover Talia and Selene trying to stop her from bleeding to death in the back of the Hearse.

She _did_ remember, though, the look in Talia's eyes when she'd noticed, just for a second, that she was awake. It had been a hatred, an anger running so deep inside the woman that it moved through her thicker than blood. It had been a promise of revenge taken slow, cold and forever. It had been a warning to everyone who had hurt her that the word "Holocaust" was going to be redefined using them, their families, friends, allies and everyone they knew as an example. It had been a statement that Death sought out _everybody_ in time.

Julia actually smiled, weirdly, at that memory. When she'd seen that look on Talia's face, she'd known that all those responsible for what had happened to her, everyone who had been in some way involved? Death was the beginning of the pain they were going to suffer, not the end. Suffering would just be the beginning.

It was strange, come to think of it, just how much her thinking had changed since _she'd_ been "changed", even though she was still Sydney Bristow hidden away inside the skin of "Julia Thorne". Once, she would have stopped Talia from doing what she'd later promised to do herself, unless she'd been crippled or killed trying. Once, as a good and honest Agent of the CIA, she would have done what she had to do to bring down and kill or capture people like Talia, Selene, Cole, even and especially Anna.

Now, though? Now, the thought of Talia dismantling the men who had Raped and mutilated her piece by piece over a period of hours, maybe even days, actually made her relax. The thought of atrocities being committed in her name by someone who had told her what she was up to, in case she had any objections, didn't really bother her any longer.

The thought of spending time around professional Assassins and really getting to know them just seemed...normal? Even hard-to-define stone-cold killers like Cole, a mute killing machine who was totally lacking in morals, conscience and any sense of right or wrong, didn't seem that strange to her any longer. She knew that his loyalty, once gained, was absolute, just like his trust. If the man made a promise to someone he kept it.

Talia had once told her that Cole reminded her of the Spartans of ancient Greece, with all veneers of civilisation stripped away. She'd said the man was the best fighter she'd ever seen or met-which, since she included herself and Jason Bourne on the list, was saying something-and that the man could and would find a way to kill _anyone_ if he put his mind to it. She'd said that if Cole had led an army, his men would have obeyed his Orders even if they were dead.

Julia believed it, she'd seen what Cole was capable of if he had to be. That kind of man, able to speak or not, would have led an army into Hell and back out again through sheer willpower and not lost a man fighting the Devil because they'd have been more afraid of dying on him than Satan himself. Cole would have led from the front, a smile on his face, laughing the whole way.

She was starting to loose track of who she was, even _what_ she was, after most of two years Deep Undercover with everyone she loved left believing her dead, even her identity and her own mind stolen away from her. She really didn't know what was going to happen to her if she kept living like this much longer...

"Julia, we've talked about this. Making yourself ill is no way to deal with your demons. Talk to me, instead" came Talia's voice, from so close behind her that Julia should have jumped. She hadn't heard the front door being unlocked, the door opening or Talia's movements or footfalls approaching her. But-she'd gotten used to that, now. Talia, Selene, Cole? Unless they wanted you to know they were coming, you never did, Talia more than anyone.

"I'm not making myself ill, Talia, I'm...thinking. After what happened, I find I do that best in clean air. Paris air might not be clean, but storm air is. It reminds me nobody is...touching me. You understand that?" Julia replied, softly. Talia's answering smile, as Julia looked around at her, was sad.

"Actually, yes, I do, although I know for a fact that getting what happened out of your head by talking to someone who will not judge you, dismiss you or expect you to just "recover" as though the matter is nothing is a better choice. Its entirely up to you, though" Talia said, striding over to sit on the bed beside Julia.

That was another thing which had changed, Julia knew. As Talia sat, the jet black dressing gown she was wearing-as sleek as everything else the woman wore, of course-the centre parted just enough to display a brief flash of cleavage and tanned inner thigh.

Julia drank it in, her eyes tracing their way up Talia's body from legs which never seemed to end, to broad hips narrowing to a slender waist, to full breasts which just begged to be cupped in firm hands, to broad shoulders for a woman and strong arms, stronger than most men's ending with graceful, dextrous fingers which could have any number of uses. A perfectly smooth, long throat arced up to a face of such perfect physical beauty that it made the eyes stop just to drink in such perfection.

Talia, sometimes known as Monica Messolina, was the most beautiful woman Sydney had ever seen and, she had little doubt, ever would. Physically flawless, sensual and svelte, brilliant and graceful in a way which defied description, charismatic and oh so dangerous to know, let alone get close to... When had she, Sydney Bristow, become so aware that sometimes women were far more worth looking at than men? That women could be so much more _worthy_ than men...?

"You know, Talia, I've heard that there's one sure-fire way to stop yourself from thinking about anything else. Infallible, I hear" said Julia, placing a hand on Talia's shoulder and running a thumb over the exposed skin across the collarbone. Talia didn't flinch or shift, or move at all.

"Oh, what would that be?" she asked in return, her voice soft. She didn't try to hide the smile on her face, though, or the heart in her eyes as she slowly turned to face Julia.

Julia's hand shifted and the shoulder of Talia's dressing gown fell away from her shoulder, baring most of a breast and a large amount of delicious-looking skin. Unable to stop herself, Julia leaned forwards and tasted that skin with her tongue, then her lips. Talia tasted like strawberries and vanilla ice cream on a warm summers days, tinged with traces of lemon and lime which had had to be a shampoo she'd recently used. Her bare hand came back to rest on Talia's bare back even as her tongue touched the other woman's skin.

_That_ got a response from Talia, as she breathed in sharply and deeply and leaned her head back. Talia's hair brushed against Julia's skin with a delicious feel of silken strands drifting across smooth skin. Slowly, one of Talia's hands came over her shoulder to grasp Julia's, then withdrew.

"I believe that I can manage that, Jules" said Talia, so softly Julia almost didn't hear the words. Then Talia stood up with an easy, animal grace, turned to face Julia and, with agonising slowness, let her dressing gown fall away from her body to pool around her feet. It wasn't the first time she'd seen Talia nude, but it _was_ the first time with the offer the woman had made at Julia's question.

Slowly, as Julia memorised every detail, Talia knelt on the bed, then approached Julia on all fours. The view was to kill or even die for, Talia was the kind of woman Wars would have been fought over in ancient lands. Julia swallowed, then slowly, carefully opened her own gown, drew it away from her body and tossed it to one side. Talia didn't stop, so she lay back and down, letting Talia finally kneel atop her. Their bodies were so close they were a hairs breadth apart...

All of a sudden she noticed that Talia had a short silver knife in one hand. Her muscles clenched involuntarily, but she found it almost disturbingly easy to relax. She just _knew_, on some level much deeper than gut instinct, that Talia would never do her real harm.

The knife descended to the skin just between her breasts, then moved to the very base of her ribs, where it bit for maybe a couple of seconds. Talia was a Mistress of the blade, though, she didn't bleed, barely even felt the sting. It didn't change the fact that her, Julia's, blood was on the knife...

Talia's pink tongue came out, licked a touch of blood from the blade, then she placed it carefully aside on the bedside table. Talia looked Julia straight in the eyes, no lies or barriers between them now.

"I never touch before I taste" said Talia, slowly, licking her lips in a way which made Julia's pulse accelerate to the point she couldn't tell the separate beats apart. She almost stopped breathing at the heat she could feel building between them.

"But I always have what I want" Talia continued, lowering herself down onto Julia with a delicious lack of speed that let both women enjoy every last moment of this first intimate contact between them before her lips and then her mouth found Julia's. It was their first time...

/End of Chapter 39. All Reviews welcomed/.


	41. Chapter 41

Legal disclaimers: see earlier Parts.

Disclaimers: see earlier Parts.

**The Last Day**

_Moscow, 2007, one day ago_

Julian Lazarey, more commonly known as Sark, was a Mercenary in the truest sense of the word. He was a man of no loyalty to anyone but himself, who was capable of what needed to be done as long as the money was right. Still only in his mid twenties he had built up a reputation that others twenty-five years his senior envied and, in some cases, would kill for through the simple skill of being the very best at what he did.

Less well known was the fact that he was essentially self-taught, even though he had had several teachers, since not one of them was ultimately responsible for what Sark had become. A young, small man barely five and a half feet tall, slender and elegant despite hard muscle, with short-cut pale blonde hair, bright blue eyes and a smooth face over fine cheekbones, he was handsome in a way some might even have called pretty.

Nobody insulted him twice, though, ever. Sark wasn't actually a violent man, but was utterly ruthless and so objective in his actions that it was almost an academic exercise in many cases. He had never suffered a broken nights sleep in his life and did not suffer nightmares, for the simple reason that he didn't see the point. After a childhood and early adult life almost completely lacking in any form of human compassion, he very rarely suffered from the weaknesses of the human condition because he had no real sense of what those weaknesses were.

Lethal in nature and action, brilliant and far beyond simply competent, Sark never failed because not only his Career but his continued life and good health depended on his success. Even his forced two-year stay in the custody of the CIA hadn't finished him, since people had been waiting to acquire his services. Discrete and efficient as ever, he'd delivered what was required and was back in business a month later. His forced servitude to the Covenant and purchase of his own life, for eighty million dollars or, as he preferred to call it, his inheritance, hadn't interfered. They'd just thought they had him under control, like everyone else.

At the moment, having successfully completed a job Ordered by a woman he owed his life more than once over, he was headed to his Moscow Safe House to get warm again by escaping the cold of a fading Russian Winter. The streets of Moscow were still full of snow turning to slush, the temperature rarely got above freezing and sleet was more often than not the result of dark clouds. When a freezing wind was added into matters even wearing a heavy Overcoat, gloves, boots and hat, all dark brown and lined with fur, wasn't enough to keep him warm.

He was wearing a grey sweater, white shirt and black trousers under his thick outer layer, but he could feel the cold on every part of his skin, particularly in his extremities. His fast walk hadn't done much to help, but stepping inside the house that he owned did as the temperature promptly went up ten degrees. He had a key, so he had no need of making any obvious signs of passage. Besides which, only people foolish enough to try and break in needed to worry.

It was a simple two-storey structure, with few windows, solid walls and a basement he could seal off for use as a bomb shelter if necessary. The basement also had a contained area he discreetly stored weapons and gear in only he could access. None of the rooms connected, so the only way in or out was through a door which locked solidly. A bomb built into the houses foundations made sure nobody would use it without his authorisation, even if he was dead.

He frowned, though, on stepping inside, when he heard the sound of what could only be his Shower running, before it suddenly shut off. Dropping his hat, coat and gloves soundlessly to the floor, he drew his pistol from the base of his spine, flicked off the Safety and made his way upstairs without a sound. His steps were measured, careful and definite, he knew where and when to step to avoid anyone even suspecting he was present-if they hadn't heard the door open and close. Hopefully, the running shower would have obscured such a slight noise...

He made his way to the bathroom to find the door slightly open and steam coming out. He paused a moment-then shoved the door open fully with his foot and levelled his weapon dead centre of mass on whoever was inside-then had to stop and stare.

His Security man, Joseph, was lying in the bathtub and was, without question, dead. His face was bloody, his nose broken, flesh torn all over his face and head. His throat had been cut and there were evident stab wounds all over his bare chest, as though the fatal attack had been frenzied.

Joseph, who had never had a legal surname, was a tall, slim man, six feet even and compactly muscled, bald-headed with pale grey eyes. In his mid thirties, he'd been a professional Security Specialist for the highest bidder for almost twenty years. But, a rare case, once he took a Job he saw it through to the end and would tolerate _no_ distractions. The man gave his word and kept it, matters were that simple to him.

Money, pain, pleasure, threats... Joseph wouldn't have blinked if a Nuke had gone off in the same city, he'd have sat down with a gun in his hand and waited to die or until the job was done. He was reliable in the way Sark was, but had never been the kind to manipulate anyone to get the job done. If someone crossed him he'd follow them into Hell and kill them with his bare hands if he had to.

He rarely talked and Sark had little doubt the man would never break, even under very specialised forms of interrogation, which had made Joseph the perfect man for guarding Sark's varied properties. But now he was dead and, given the blood spatter across the bath and walls, he hadn't died easily...

Then he noticed the second person in the room who had just stepped out of his shower and was drying her hair with a towel-in the nude and soaking wet. Sark took one good look at the woman and was very tempted to shoot himself, despite the view. He knew the woman, everyone in his profession had at least heard of her but few had had the ill luck to meet her. Even fewer than that had survived it.

Aishwariya Nevata was standing in front of him fresh out of his shower in his Safe House with his butchered Security Agent lying dead in the bath three feet from him. He'd be the first to admit the view was beyond spectacular, if you liked women you'd wade through molten lava just to look at this one...but he had very little doubt he was going to die. Aishwariya was as deadly, capable and brilliant as she was crazy, so since she was completely crazy and Sark knew that better than almost anyone...

"I didn't do that" said Aishwariya, quietly, even as she finished drying her hair, picked a larger towel off of the rail and moved onto her body. Sark had a Poker face that never told anyone what he was thinking or planning. Even his eyes were mirrors, a skill he'd developed to survive his violent fathers abuses as a child and refined as he grew up. But seeing the woman in front of him as she was...his mouth went dry and he couldn't stop openly staring. He was having trouble even getting words out.

"...You understand, of course, that for me to accept that I will need proof" he finally managed, the best that he _could_ manage. She just nodded.

"The Assassin is in seven pieces under the bed. I only had an hour to work, but he signed a full Confession before I could be completely clear what it was I wanted him to tell me. He thought telling me everything would save his life, I think" said Aishwariya, shaking her head at the naivety of some people.

"Of course, I will read it in a few moments. However, since you are here in my Safe House at this time, I presume you are here for a reason?" he asked, putting the Safety back on his pistol and holstering it. He no longer had any doubt she was telling the truth, as far as she could. People who crossed Aishwariya died deaths so awful Doctors had nightmares ten years after seeing what was left, he'd been told. He'd seen her work, he believed it.

"Yes. Marcus Dixon is dead. The people who killed him are all dead, but the people who ordered his death believe they are safe. They are not. You are going to help me kill them" said Aishwariya, a statement of fact if ever he'd heard one. He just smiled.

"Why not? Dixon was an exceptionally capable Agent who was a most worthy adversary. Some blood _should_ be spilled to mark his passing. I presume you know who we are after?" Sark replied, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes. The Evolution Cadre, by way of the British Government. Not that the British knew, but their men did the deed so the debt will be settled. You have an objection?" asked Aishwariya, her simple tone of voice telling him to be so careful what he said that he would be bleeding to death on the floor before he realised what had happened if he said the wrong thing.

"Actually, no. Its time I made a return trip to dear old Blighty, after all" said Sark. His words actually coaxed an honest smile from Aishwariya, for just long enough that he was sure he saw it.

_Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam_

Artemisia Hades flight was among the last three allowed into Vietnamese airspace before the Air Force locked down the airspace around the capital city using fighter jets. The Army, according to news reports, had barricaded every street, alley and house within half a mile of the US Embassy-and even from the air, she could see why.

The site where the US Embassy had been was now nothing more than a hundred-metre wide crater with flames gouting over ten metres into the sky everywhere she looked. The flames were yellow-white, which suggested Napalm to her, while the edges of the crater were no more than cracked, collapsing shards which seemed to be slowly spreading outwards. A trail of deep, dark black smoke at least a mile longer was blanketing the whole city and threatening to spread out to the sea.

Emergency Services vehicles blanketed the scene so completely it looked as though they'd been deliberately told to encircle the area, the result being a sea of flashing lights and pale vehicles as small, dark figures hurried back and forth. Darker vehicles made clear the presence of more specialised Emergency units, there to prevent any fallout from the Embassy's destruction from spreading she had no doubt.

She'd seen Artillery bombardments do less damage to civilian structures and she knew the Embassy would have been fortified. Just what had happened at the Embassy to cause the US Navy to blast it off the map so effectively like this? How in the name of Athena herself had the Americans dared stage a military attack on Vietnam, anyway?

She didn't care about America or any of its people at all, but she knew more than enough to get the job done if she had to go there. She was a professional, first and foremost. But this? This was a US President committing Political Suicide. The Order had to have come down directly from him for an attack like this to be carried out.

She got into the Cab waiting for her quickly since all she had on her was a shoulder bag and purse-for appearances sake-then once the Cab had pulled off and was away, she pulled a Lipstick carton out of her bag. She pressed a button underneath it and the Cab was suddenly filled with White Noise, blocking out any recording devices while the Sonic was active. Then she leaned forwards and spoke to the driver, taking note of the always-loaded heavy Shotgun concealed under the dashboard.

"Report. Is she alright?" asked Artemisia, in fluent French. It was the Drivers first language, not that many realised that given his appearance. Jack Bristow hadn't, for one.

"Your girls safe, saw her out of the country myself. Reckon something very bad happened in the Embassy first, though" replied the Driver, driving nowhere in particular at a steady speed. After all, his Cab had different number plates since the Police and he had suffered their encounter. Also, with a wig of long hair and sunglasses, he looked more than different enough to avoid easy identification.

"You don't know what, though? I see. It is certain the Americans bombed their own Embassy here?" she asked.

"I saw the planes markings and checked the designs myself. There is no question" replied the Driver, making sure not to visibly respond to her words. When you dealt with people like Artemisia, he had long ago learnt not to acknowledge anything they said or did. Not even to his own family, since if he ever did he would be dead by the time he got home. He'd known the score from the beginning, though, so he could accept it in return for the advantages and money his "Job" supplied.

"Understood, irrelevant for now. Do you know her destination?" asked Artemisia.

"They were heading west, beyond that I cannot tell. Do you wish me to find out?" asked the Driver, carefully.

"No, I'll do that. Take me to the usual place" replied Artemisia, with a nod. She'd just have to find out precisely what Nadia was involved in and whether or not she really was alright for certain herself. What was going on was starting to look like something she might need to get involved with to watch Nadia's back properly...

_APO_

"Sir?" asked one of the Security Agents at APO, standing in front of Sloane's office door to get his attention. With everything going on Sloane was preoccupied keeping track of events and the various Agents and Agencies involved, which required his full concentration. But-he never let himself get so absorbed by his work that he lost track of what was around him, a lesson well learned from his time at SD-6. A man who thought himself secure, even in his own headquarters, was dead, matters were that simple.

"Yes, what is it?" replied Sloane, pausing to glance up at the Agent. He knew the Agents name, of course, but tended to only directly address members of his team. People tended to think you respected their opinion if you began to refer to them by name, he'd found, so he always made sure to refer to anyone he didn't want to use as "Agent" first and foremost. The line between superiors and workers needed to be clear for efficient work to be done.

For one thing, even as Director of APO following his appointment by the Director herself, he knew everybody was aware of the fact he had spent over a decade outside of the law as a result of his joining the Alliance all those years ago. He'd worked on Projects and Missions directly contrary to the interests of the USA, a fact that few would forgive and even fewer forget. Therefore, he had to make sure that, even if the workers at APO didn't like him, they _would_ follow his Orders without hesitation.

"Sir, we run a Security sweep of the tunnel and platform nearby every thirty minutes, as you know. We...got a Hit, Sir, a very unexpected one" said the Agent, carefully.

"I see, transfer the data to my screen. Why are you coming to me to inform me in person, though?" asked Sloane, sharply.

"Sir, the person we have identified on the platform is Toni Cummings and, based on her movements and what we've been able to determine of her actions, she is trying to determine the location of APO. We don't know how she could even be aware of the Units existence, Sir, let alone be near locating us" replied the Security man. He looked unhappy about what he was saying-as Sloane would have expected him to, this was no slight security issue.

"I see. Tell Agent Vaughn I wish to see him immediately. Alert a Security team and tell them the Objective is to secure the Subject, but Lethal Force is authorised if she resists or flees" said Slone, tapping a key to change his monitor view so that he could monitor events in real time.

"Yes Sir" replied the Agent, before he turned and left without another word. What, Sloane couldn't help but wonder, would Toni Cummings be doing in LA on her own, apparently? More to the point: _how_ did she have any idea at all where APO might even _possibly_ be? He was missing an important piece of the growing puzzle and he needed it filled in as soon as possible.

Thankfully, Agent Vaughn was reliable in interrogations and had become even more capable in such matters since the entire Lauren Reed incident. As an old hand with various forms of Psychological Warfare and the "Changing" of peoples minds in a number of ways, Sloane was absolutely certain that Reed had used a form of Reprogramming to change Vaughn into more the kind of man she wanted than he was. He was sure Jack had worked that out, too.

Neither of them had ever even hinted at the fact to Sydney, though, who seemed oblivious, even though she knew better. Jack had stated that he believed Sydney wanted to blame the changed Vaughn on the trauma of dealing with just who Lauren had really been and just what she had done, in an attempt to dodge the reality of what had happened to the man after what had happened to _her_. Neither of them could begrudge the chance for Sydney to try and hold onto something which "hadn't" been damaged by the life she lived, so they hadn't said a thing.

If he was being honest, though, he was also trying to help Sydney for his Daughter Nadia's sake. Nadia had been through an extraordinary early life, just like Sydney, so the more normal and solid the lives they had now the better, even given both women's chosen profession. Nadia leant on Sydney far more than most realised-but Sloane refused to ignore anything his Daughter needed or wanted or said after missing so much of her life. He was her Father, therefore it was his duty to be whatever she needed whenever she needed it. It was the least he could do.

_New York_

"Your sure you're family is safe?" asked Anna Neagley, as she field-stripped and cleaned an M-18 Assault Rifle in front of him, putting the parts on a crate in front of her. David Webb tried not to stare at the very illegal Military-Grade weapon she had so casually produced when they'd relocated to what Anna had simply referred to as "Dad's Bolthole".

They'd ended up in a mainly disused block of run-down apartments which looked like they dated from the 1930's if he was any judge, all white-painted walls, grey stone underneath and threadbare carpet that had seen better decades. Ancient, disintegrating rotating wheel fans slowly turned overhead in the corridors, the wood speckled with fungus and rotted half through at best, while cracked and chipped filthy glass windows obscured any view there might once have been.

Paintings which had probably been worth some money when the apartments had been in their prime were now warped by decay, age and rot. Even the screws holding the frames to the wall had rusted away to such an extent that just walking past them could shake them free, at which point they fell to the floor with a bang and had, the first time at least, made him jump.

The only remaining tenants he'd seen were very elderly men and women who obviously had nowhere else to go, Drug Addicts so far out of their minds on whatever they'd taken they likely didn't even know they were still on Earth-and a middle-aged African American man. That had been an odd one. The man had seemingly been screaming and shouting at someone or something inside his apartment-but when Anna had knocked on the door, he'd answered it as normal and sane-looking as anyone you could hope to meet. Webb, though, had gotten a look at the inside of the tiny apartment-there had been nobody else inside.

He'd just taken in Anna with a sharp glance, Webb with a longer one which had seemed strangely thorough, then nodded and closed the door again without a word. Then the screaming and shouting had started up again.

The man was at least fifty, probably older, with greying black hair, dark brown eyes and a heavily-scarred face, torso and arms, all revealed by the worn light-blue jeans which were all he had been wearing. Webb had recognised blade wounds of all descriptions, bullet scars and what looked like the result of being beaten with a whip on the mans shoulders and left side. Given the man was six and a half feet tall and a walking wall of muscle who looked like he could bench-press a small car, Webb wasn't sure he wanted to know how the man had gotten his scars.

Again, though, he knew the type. The man had "Professional Soldier" as good as stamped on his forehead, a Mercenary without a doubt. To be alive at his age with his scars? A very, very good one. Although, somehow, it seemed that the man had lost a big chunk of his Sanity somewhere along the way. On the other hand, Webb knew all about what the traumas of War and combat could do to you, so maybe it wasn't such a bad thing...

Anna had led him on all the way to the top floor, where she'd opened the apartment door with an unusual key and let him in before locking the door behind the two of them. The room had been small and sparse, seemingly, a bare bulb and empty walls its only decoration, bar furniture-armchairs, a sofa, a table-under dustsheets and a number of wooden crates.

Anna had opened one of the crates without hesitation and pulled out the M-18 in front of his eyes. Now, he was starting to wonder just what else Cactus and she might have hidden away up here.

"If I had any doubt at all I wouldn't be here, I'd be there with a gun and I would be very, very angry. People who have seen me that angry haven't lived to talk about it, trust me" he replied, flatly.

"I call him Creasy, after the madman from "Man on Fire", you know?" asked Anna, quietly. The odd statement made Webb blink.

"Beg pardon, _who_?" asked Webb, having no idea what Anna was talking about. Probably because he avoided books which attempted to portray the kind of life he'd led and profession he was all about as some kind of "Adventure", even if it was a deadly, brutal one. He'd suffered enough as it was.

"A J Quinnell, an Author, wrote a book where a former professional Mercenary called Creasy, a Veteran of every major conflict since the early fifties, in the late eighties is burnt out and looking for an out. He takes a job as a Bodyguard for this young girl whose part of a rich family and looking after her puts Creasy back in touch with his Humanity. Problem is, she gets kidnapped for a Ransom and dies. Creasy nearly gets killed trying to save her. When he's healed up, he goes to War with an entire Mafia family single-handedly to settle the score. Good book, I thought" said Anna, looking Webb straight in the eyes.

"I see. I presume that the man downstairs is, shall we say, a very hard man just like this "Creasy"? Cam I also presume that's not his name?" replied Webb.

"He can't speak, he got shot in the face last year by an ex-SEAL who'd taken a Contract on his life after swapping sides, he lost most of his teeth, his tongue and a chunk of his jaw. Then he killed the SEAL with his bare hands" replied Anna, sharply. "Besides, I only know his real name because I saw it in his Personnel File. He doesn't respond to it any longer, just "Creasy" ever since Dad hired him to Watchdog this place and I called him that. I think he's a fan, myself" she added, with a smirk.

"Four Tours of Nam', Afghanistan, Iraq in both Gulf Wars, that's just the basics. He Quit the Rangers in 2004 after he was ordered to open fire on a crowd of protesting civilians including women and children in Iraq. Got a Dishonourable Discharge for "striking" his CO so hard he broke the mans jaw and nose and fractured his skull. Been a Merc ever since, the kind who Oil Sheiks hire to take out entire Cells of Al'Quaeda single-handedly. Hard isn't a strong enough word to describe just what makes that man tick. Even if he is crazy, hence the screaming at nothing" said Anna, shaking her head.

"Anyway, David, we need to get your family to a safe place and then" she said, her eyes narrowing, "We go hunting. We can use this place as a base, Creasy will take care of security and you'd be surprised what's in these walls and crates. How do you want to do this?" Anna asked, looking straight at Webb.

"My family go to a very safe place nobody will ever find them, then we kill every last one of the bastards" said Webb, very simply. He was too old to play verbal games, these days.

Anna just smiled at his words. "Now that's a Plan I can get behind..." she said, softly.

_LA_

"_Listen to me carefully, Pamela, because if I have to repeat myself then there will be consequences. I am making this an Order on the authority of the White House. You are to cease and desist any and all enquiries into Monica Messolina and her background IMMEDIATELY and destroy or delete all evidence so far gathered. This is in no way an invitation to debate anything_" said Julia Hanlon, Director of Counter-Terrorism for the NSA. Her voice was so cold when she spoke Pamela Landry half expected to feel a chill in the air-not that she had any idea why she was even getting this call, nor how Hanlon had discovered what she was doing.

"Excuse me? To begin with, I will require confirmation of that Order carrying the official authority of the White House with it. Second, Monica Messolina is a public figure and I am not running her name through ANY Government databases, so precisely how do you see my conducting research of publicly available facts as being in any way the business of the NSA or the White House? Third, as a Deputy Director of the CIA in charge of Special Projects and Operations I have the authority to run the names of suspect individuals through any databases given just cause for suspicion. Which I have from a reliable source in her case" Landry snapped back, her voice sharp, not liking what she was hearing at all.

"_Call Director Hayden Chase at Langley if you don't want to believe that this is an official Order, Landry, the consequences are on your own head. As for running a search through certain databases you have access to you should be well aware, based on what you have no doubt already discovered from her public profile, Messolina has links with the White House and the President directly. YOU could be investigated as a possible threat to National Security for trying to look too deeply into her background, Landry_" replied Hanlon, her voice becoming even cooler as she spoke.

"_As for your claim that as a Deputy Director for the CIA you have the authority to press the issue if you so choose, be very careful who you say that to. You have already gained the attention of people in places so far out of your area of understanding that you'll never see or hear them coming if they put a stop to this. If the President is pushed he might make it an Executive Order, that's how high up this goes, Landry. Last chance to end this voluntarily_" Hanlon continued, her voice almost getting softer but no warmer.

"...I see. Would it matter at all if I stated that my research has a direct link with the Operation I am currently helping to run?" said Landry, finally realising and accepting that she was trying to operate far outside of her weight class in terms of pull and power. She didn't like threats and responded to them very harshly-normally. But, however she looked at this-and she _was_ going to look into it-Hanlon was warning her off, not threatening her, after hearing rumbles of significant discontent from right at the top of the chain of command.

"_Not to the people who topple other countries over lunch, Landry. I'm glad to hear that you've seen sense. Keep your nose clean and your ear to the ground_" said Hanlon, then she hung up. Landry sat in her LA home, in her favourite armchair, staring at the phone for maybe a minute, then she called Director Chase and confirmed the Order. She just sighed after hanging up, yet again she was onto something that was part of a greater whole which it appeared she would need Bourne to get the whole picture on. This time, though, the CIA was actually part of the problem, not the solution...

She frowned, stood up and walked over to the fireplace. Removing the picture, she revealed a wall safe which she opened using a combination lock and her thumbprint. Reaching in, ignoring the money, jewels, spare gun and ammunition and other important necessities she secured there in case of emergencies, she picked up a slim brown card file from the back and looked, carefully, at the single word on the front.

_Disavowed_

One word, but it meant so much to some. Men and women who had paid the ultimate price for serving their country, yet somehow lived to see another day. Whatever had happened had left everyone in the file forever cut off from the USA and any part of it in any way, of course, but that didn't stop them still being useful. She glanced through the papers, then chose the one which seemed most useful.

The man in the picture was completely bald, with slightly slanted eyes and a compact physique that she knew was all muscle, despite his almost slender frame. She knew thanks to a _very_ thorough debrief some years ago. He wasn't a handsome man, his face was far too plain for that, but he had a presence which made people in the same room want to defer to him and a brilliant smile that could melt ice when he chose to use it.

Most important of all, though, was a remarkable mind he kept hidden behind pale blue eyes, a flawless memory, needlepoint total concentration once he was given a job to complete and the intelligence to see all the angles when he was working on it. He didn't make mistakes and he could hold his own with the best of them, physically or mentally-unless he came up against someone as gifted and capable as Bourne, perhaps.

His name was John Yue, he was a former Special Projects "Fixer" who would do whatever it took to get the job done and would kill if he thought it necessary. He was the kind of Agent all good intelligence Agency Directors knew they would need access to one day-and he hadn't blinked at an almost twenty-year age gap when she'd made a tentative suggestion of a drink five years earlier. The good old days...

Before Yue had killed a CIA Agent without proof, even though Landry and Yue knew for a fact the Agent was guilty of Treason. He'd done the job, then taken the fall for her and gotten out of the country before the FBI could catch up with him. The CIA knew he'd done it a big favour, so he was unofficially "Hands off", officially on the list of Rogue Agents.

She checked the number the file had attached, pulled out her clean phone and dialled. She was going to find out what was going on, one way or another.

Y

Harmon Gibbs had been recalled to the "Embassy" to deal with continuing fallout concerning the death of several senior Government figures. People in high places-including his own superiors-were becoming increasingly unhappy about the lack of progress in the hunt for Jason Bourne. Those who knew what he had been Tasked with, anyway.

He would normally have been able to refuse to leave the Mission in hand, his rank and the extraordinary authority he had been granted after 9/11 giving him the clout. But that was under "normal" circumstances, when he hadn't been shot in the left shoulder and been left effectively unable to use his arm.

Then there was Kate, who was a cripple now, her right hand ruined, the flesh of her hand literally cooked, the nerves destroyed. The burns spread up to her elbow, but the catastrophic damage had been limited to her hand. The lower half of her arm had "only" suffered damage severe enough to leave her scarred for the rest of her life. Parts of her face had been scarred, too.

Gibbs had twenty-five years on Kate, but he was still in better shape than she was. On top of which, while both of them were carrying any number of smaller cuts and bruises from the vicious fight they'd both been badly injured in, Kate's scars were internal, too, he'd realised. He'd caught her staring at her ruined hand or just staring off into space more than once when she'd had some time alone and knew all of the signs.

Kate was a very smart woman and, in fact, a qualified and highly trained Profiler from before she'd joined the Secret Service. She had to know just what the consequences of her injuries would be, both for her and her Career. She also had to know that she was suffering from the beginnings of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, but for all of her training and experience he knew she had no experience of really dealing with such a condition.

That was why he'd elected to keep her close while he was forced to leave Denton to head up the Mission for now. She was waiting in the Security area now with the rest of the guards, who he'd quietly requested keep an eye on her before going on in after driving them there. He'd made a note to get her a full Psychiatric evaluation as soon as possible, he had to find a way to help her through this before she was too far gone.

"_Agent Gibbs, you are teleconferencing with CIA Director Chase, NSA Counter-Terrorist Director Hanlon, CIA Deputy Director Landry and Director Sloane of APO. You are being joined by Deputy Director James Yeager of Homeland Security, who has been brought in to the Task Force to supply a new point of view and further resources if necessary. All have been briefed on the current situation and are waiting to hear from you. Are you ready to begin?_" came the voice of a male Agent running the communications array.

"I'm ready. Begin" replied Gibbs, shifting in an effort to get comfortable with his injured arm.

"_Agent Gibbs, this is James Yeager at Homeland. I may have just been brought aboard this Task Force, but I have to say I don't like what I see. Jason Bourne is criss-crossing this country like he's able to fly under his own power and Assassinating top officials in a way that makes all of our security Protocols a joke. I have the Report on the attack on Conklin's Estate on my desk in front of me, it reads like something I would expect to see out of a War Zone_" said Yeager, grimly.

"_Conklin Senior, our best lead, has been assassinated since the attack, along with his close friend Morris Panov, blown up with a Grenade and shot to death to be sure by the Assassin-who nobody has yet been able to identify. People Bourne is apparently after, even a former CIA Director, are dying as though it's a casual act to kill someone of their background and influence. A Task Force set up specifically to shut Bourne down is apparently unable to make real headway. None of this is what I want to hear, so why is the last thing I see here a total lack of clues as to where Bourne is?_" asked Yeager, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice.

"With respect, Deputy Director, we are chasing after a CIA trained professional Assassin who is operating with the aid of unknown resources and intelligence to accomplish a goal which has yet to be determined. The fact that Bourne suffers from Amnesia appears to have only made him more dangerous to us, since previous behavioural models have proven completely ineffective in predicting both his behaviour and his actions. We know _what_ we are dealing with, but not _who_ or _why_, no matter what you may have been informed of" replied Gibbs, sharply.

"Besides which, we have almost no background on Bourne and his movements, let alone anyone he may have made contact with, since he fell off the grid in 2002. Best we have is that he spent two years in hiding in India, a precise location was never determined, before he left abruptly when his Partner, Marie Helena Kreutz, was killed in a botched Assassination attempt. The Assassin was later identified as a Russian Secret Service Agent called Kiril, who was operating on Orders from a Russian Oligarch and a senior CIA Agent. What this did to Bourne, in the state he was already in at the time, is impossible to estimate" Gibbs continued, his voice hardening.

"Bourne has since been spotted all over the world, Germany, France, Russia, China, South Africa, Mexico, Argentina, Iran-I could go on. He could have built up his own network and created all new Contacts we know nothing about over the past three years, who could be helping him out using ways and means we simply cannot perceive or understand yet" Gibbs added, before pausing for a moment.

"For one thing, the CIA Leaks badly. The only way Bourne could have targeted all of the people he has is if he had access to information from CIA Archives rated Above Top Secret going back over thirty years and, by my understanding, even the Director has to Sign Out that kind of Intel. I also understand that the information is preserved in such a way that it cannot be Photocopied, Photographed or electronically copied, which means someone with access walked out with it all in their head. I presume the CIA is investigating that, Director Chase?" Gibbs asked, pointedly.

"_Since we became aware of the situation Internal Affairs has Locked Down the Archives and done a complete analysis of who has had access to the information since Bourne went Rogue. The last person to access that information was Conklin Jnr. in 1997, when Project Treadstone was being resurrected. NOBODY has accessed it since_" replied Chase, annoyance almost coming through in her voice.

"_I should point out now that these Files cannot be hacked because they are kept in an exceptional paper format and on a computer system which is not linked to any other or the Internet. Even electronic copies are impossible because just the attempt would set off every electronic alarm Langley has and the people in Archives are authorised to shoot to kill in those circumstances, Gibbs_" she added, pointedly.

"I see. What about the possibility of someone having had access to these Files and keeping copies from before they were Classified?" asked Gibbs.

"_Project Treadstone didn't officially exist in the 70's and it was NEVER officially acknowledged, never will be, Gibbs_" said Chase, sharply. "_Everyone who worked on it back then is either very old or dead, besides which, an Assassination attempt on Carlos the Jackal without authorisation of any sort going behind the backs of every Intelligence and Government Agency at the height of the Cold War? If it ever came out the Russians would spend the next twenty years reaping political capital from the fallout. Anyone involved would have committed Suicide by the end of the day, along with anyone who they might have talked to about it, ever. Do you understand that?_" Chase asked, pointedly.

"I know the value of secrets, Director, yes, I simply thought that the CIA was better at managing its than most. Someone, it seems, created a very big mess at some point we are now faced with having to find a way to clean up" said Gibbs.

"_Pardon my cutting in, but I understood that the point of this teleconference was to update everyone on the hunt for Bourne and any leads. Since we seem to have none and be finding comfort in rehashing history going back to the Vietnam War, might I suggest that we all stop arguing and do our jobs? I, of all people, know that going over and over past mistakes is no way to solve current ones. In any case, with an Agent like Bourne you won't catch him making a mistake. You catch him by working out what he's really up to and getting there first_" Sloane said, before anyone else could speak.

Gibbs face tightened, although only Katherine could see the effort it took for him to visibly hold back the instinct to tell Sloane to go to Hell. However, Gibbs didn't get the chance to reply.

"_I agree with Sloane, we are turning up no leads on Bourne because he isn't making mistakes or leaving any traces behind him for us to find or follow. If we can find out what he's up to and get ahead of him, we might stop him yet, before his next target dies_" said Hanlon, her voice strong and firm.

Gibbs had liked the woman on meeting her face to face, strong and smart-and a beauty, an added bonus-but his instincts had warned him off her, somehow. It was as though there was something under the surface with her that he just couldn't quite put a name to, that was ugly enough to get his attention yet so well-hidden it was hard to even perceive it...?

"_Excuse me, Director, but I think we are all overlooking one man who can help us with all of this, in a way nobody else can_" said Landry, causing Gibbs eyes to narrow. Damn CIA, he thought, always keeping secrets hidden away amongst and behind other secrets. He sometimes wondered if even the Agency itself actually knew what was going on in its own ranks, let alone in the world around them.

"_Go on, Pamela, speak freely. What do you have?_" replied Chase. The fact that Chase had used Landry's Christian name wasn't lost on anyone on the teleconference call. Gibbs just hoped that any personal friendship between the two women wouldn't cloud either's professional instincts.

"_Why don't we ask Jason Bourne himself? The first David Webb? His death was faked years ago to free him from Jason Bourne as an individual, but who can or would understand his replacements mind better? He'd help us with this if even half of what I've heard about him over the years is true?_" asked Landry. That led to a moments long silence...

"_Except it's not possible, I'm afraid. David Webb disappeared yesterday along with his whole family and, however they did whatever they've done, they've left no trail to follow or even a hint as to where they might have gone. If anyone can help us with this, I invite you to do so_" said Hanlon.

"_...That man was a CIA Asset for twenty years, Hanlon, we gave him our best Cover when we faked his death in return for services rendered. He made it worthwhile to arrange for his family to go with him. He was dead in every way and every record said that, even people who knew him like Conklin Snr. stated that he was dead. You're not Director of the NSA and even the new authority and regulations 9/11 granted us all doesn't let you Override a CIA Black Book Order. I KNOW your Clearance isn't high enough to get you past that, so I suggest you explain to me now, slowly and clearly, how you can know something even I don't_" said Chase, slowly, a chill almost settling in the air.

"_The Order was signed by George Bush, Snr., in 1976 after the Operation to kill the Jackal blew up in the face of certain people in the US Government, especially given the way it was conducted and by whom. I assume that I don't need to remind anyone about the Church Committee investigation and outcome at the time? The Operation Bourne was part of was exactly the kind of work Congress wanted stopped for good after Vietnam and Watergate. Rumours were still going around about President Kennedy at the time, some might remember?_" Hanlon replied, Sloane the only Agent still serving who had actually been an Agent at the time. Nobody could see his smirk at Hanlon's words.

"_The NSA was assigned Overwatch duties on Bourne as a result of Treadstone's actions and what Bourne attempted to do. It hasn't been rescinded and, when Bush became President in 89', he made out an Executive Order that meant only the President could cancel the Overwatch mission. We've known where he is every day, all the time, ever since-until now, which is disturbing_" said Hanlon, slowly.

"With all due respect, Director Hanlon, that's the most stupid thing I've heard since President Clinton said he did not have sex with Monica Lewinsky. Bourne is a professional Assassin and ex-Special Forces soldier out of Vietnam who did so many Black Bag jobs for the Agency I doubt his full War Record will be released before a century after his death at least. If he didn't know he was being followed by your people, especially after that length of time, he suffered brain damage as well as Amnesia-and we all know that's not true" said Gibbs, shaking his head.

"I've seen the Psych reports on Bourne after the original Treadstone Operation, Director. Bourne had been Deep Undercover for three years on his own with no support, on top of which he'd survived serious injury and lost his memory when he was nearly killed. I've seen first-hand what living like he has to does to someone-and I can't even imagine what three years of that would have been like" said Gibbs, his voice a snarl.

"He suffers from PTSD, has Flashbacks and, for a while after he got back, suffered from such severe panic attacks he had to be restrained in his hospital bed to prevent him from injuring himself. He was borderline Psychotic and suffered from such severe Paranoia it took a week for him to let them treat him without restraints he was so convinced everyone wanted him dead. If it hadn't been for the woman he later Married, I have little doubt he'd have ended up Committed. A man in his condition then, with his skills and training? He's known he's been followed ever since you started, believe me" said Gibbs.

"Besides which, even in this age of surveillance of what you eat for breakfast and the newspaper articles you read, with cameras on every corner and satellites watching from above, I could disappear for good if I wanted to. Bourne? He only let you because it suited him, believe me. You'll never find him again unless he wants you to" said Gibbs, making his point clearly.

"_Actually I agree, but it wasn't my decision to put watchers on him and I didn't agree with it, I simply had no choice, the job landed on my desk as Director of Counter-Terrorism at the NSA. However, does nobody else think it curious that both men who have "been" Bourne have so completely disappeared at so similar a time? Former Treadstone Agents, Assets and Contacts have all been dying violently, as a result of Leaked Intel very few people have any access to. But, Bourne lived through these events himself and he's had over thirty years to pull it all together_" said Hanlon, quietly.

"_Are we coming at this from completely the wrong way? Is it not possible that the Old Man has simply finally had enough and is using his younger copy to settle the score once and for all? Did he pull this disappearing trick now because he realised we'd work it out? Bourne, as I understand it, was Resurrected as an Agent since the name still held weight in parts of the world. You mentioned that the psychological damage and sheer pressure the original man must have been under for three years could break anyone, Gibbs. If we're dealing with the result of doing this to him and not accounting for his possible reaction..._" Hanlon added, slowly.

"That makes far too much sense to ignore the possibility. We need to look into it-and track down David Webb any way we can, as soon as we can. Does anyone else have anything to ask or say?" asked Gibbs.

He paused a minute, just in case, but nobody spoke. Clearly, Hanlon's theory had gained considerable ground with them all. "Done" he added, then broke off the call. He resisted the urge to grit his teeth, bad enough he was after an elite CIA-trained Assassin. Now he was after a Vietnam Veteran who might just have finally lost his mind, too...?

_LA_

Vaughn hadn't seen Toni Cummings since he'd been on the Mission with Sydney, which had ended in her Arrest. He hadn't been there to see her released for the simple reason that there was no point. Jack Bristow had been the one who had struck the deal that had seen her released and, Arms Dealer or not, Vaughn knew Jack wouldn't have left any loopholes for her to slip away through in any deal. That was all he needed to know.

He would admit, though, that the tall, strikingly attractive African-American woman was harder to forget than some. With a striking beauty, unusually tall and with the kind of physique only good genes or a great deal of exercise granted, she was the kind of woman who stayed in your minds eye long after you should have stopped thinking about her. She reminded him of Sydney, that way, although Sydney was really in a different class, in a way which was hard to describe to anyone who hadn't met both women.

The fact was, though, he also remembered Toni for another reason than her looks, even including her profession. When he and Sydney had Arrested her, the woman had turned out to have a Demonic temper and a habit of using language so foul, at length, that he'd been seriously tempted to knock her out after she'd called him several different obscene things in six different languages.

She'd been even more angry at Sydney than him, he'd been able to tell even then, but she'd never gone off on Sydney like she had him. Instead, she'd just called Sydney a bitch then refused to talk to her except to answer direct questions. He hadn't been able to understand it, at the time, but since the revelations about Sydney's missing two years, he'd found himself wondering.

He knew Sydney had been Operational during her missing two years-at least for fifteen months, once she'd adopted her forced "Julia Thorne" identity-but he'd never tried to think through the details. In reality, he hadn't wanted to, it hurt somewhere deep inside to think that she'd been out there, somewhere, every day for two years and that he'd effectively given up on her. But...

Just how had Sydney managed to operate in that missing time? Who had she met or made contact with? How had she gotten gear, weapons, Safe Houses and other essentials together? She'd had access to money, he'd learnt that much during the NSA investigation of her missing time-he refused to remember Lauren Reed had headed that investigation-but where had it come from?

From what he'd been able to gather, Julia had been an independent Agent working for the Covenant on a Contract by Contract basis, or at least that was what she'd left them believing she was doing to escape their attempts to Brainwash and Reprogram her. As such, she would have had to have had access to independent sources and resources, although the Covenant would have known about them at the very least...

Could Toni Cummings have been one of her suppliers? Might that be how she'd apparently come so close to tracking down Sydney at APO now? Was that why she'd been so evidently upset, yet oddly diplomatic, when he and Sydney had cornered her at last?

He shook his head as he slipped through the crowd towards the woman, his three-man Security team shadowing him in a triangle formation. He could get answers to his questions when he had the woman in Custody and had the chance to either interrogate or debrief her, depending on what she was coming to Sydney for. Hoping she wouldn't try anything since his injuries were slowing him down and his gun hand was injured, on top of which he wasn't sure he could run, Vaughn stepped forwards so only one person separated them-

She turned around abruptly and looked him straight in the eyes, with a trace of a smile. She'd made him without him even realising it. Injured or not that was disturbing, he should have been able to slip right past her without even attracting her attention. On the other hand, it just underlined how little he really knew about her. He made a note to be more careful around her... Then he saw her eyes widen and realised, suddenly, she was looking past him-

He went for his gun and turned fast, but he was too slow and the knife cut deep into his back before he could even draw breath. He exhaled involuntarily with a grunt of pain that was all he could manage, coughing suddenly and tasting blood in his mouth. If he'd been in good health and unhurt he could likely have fought on, but he wasn't and his injured body refused to respond for too long. The knife went deep again, then again, before suddenly being ripped clear with a sharp twist to widen the wounds

He staggered, unable to hold his balance, hands almost involuntarily going to his wounds and coming back drenched in his blood. The horror on Toni Cummings face was obvious as he felt his blood drenching the seat of his trousers and pouring down his legs, but he couldn't even speak to ask for help or say run. He couldn't breathe, blood was in his mouth...

He sank to his knees even as people around him started to realise something was wrong, blood beginning to run out of his mouth as he fought to stay alive. His vision was going black around the edges as the tall figure who had to be his attacker stepped forwards to confront Toni, who was only able to slowly back away, evidently unarmed.

He could still hear things, but the sounds seemed to be reaching him through a fog as he fell to all fours and spat a great gobbet of blood out of his mouth. Shouts, yells for a Doctor, screaming, his name, which had to be his Security team coming in...

He dimly perceived Toni struggling with her attacker, trying to claw his eyes out and hold back the knife at the same time. She kicked the attacker in the groin, twisted in a desperate effort to throw him off-but the attacker slammed an elbow to her throat which left her visibly gagging and choking for breath. She doubled over, tears streaming down her cheeks from the pain-before her head was wrenched back by a brutal yank on her hair and the knife plunged deep into her throat before being wrenched across.

Blood exploded out of the hideous wound as Toni's throat was torn open so completely that her spine was exposed for an awful moment. The attacker stepped back and moved to stab her in the back, likely in the heart, to make sure, before he was staggered by three bloody holes abruptly appearing in his back almost in unison. Three more holes appeared just as quickly, then the attacker tumbled bonelessly onto the metro line, where he hit the Third Rail and started to burn.

Toni wasn't completely dead when she managed to lock eyes with him, despite the awful wound in her throat and blood pouring between her hands, clasped over the wound, to the floor beneath her. Anguished eyes begged him not to die, to live, for some reason he couldn't easily identify, even though he could read so much fear in her as she knew she was already dead...

One bloody hand reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a small case of some kind, before she weakly tossed it at him seconds before she simply collapsed. He managed to clamp a hand on it in a death grip through the growing darkness, before he found himself watching Toni die as the light in her eyes went out forever and her whole body went limp. She'd spent the last seconds of her life making sure he got it, what was it that she'd be so desperate to pass on to someone she could hardly know?

As the world finally slipped away from him and darkness rushed up to claim him, he wondered if he'd live to find out himself...

/End of Chapter 40. All Reviews welcomed/.


	42. Chapter 42

Legal disclaimers: see earlier Parts.

Disclaimers: see earlier Parts.

**The Last Day**

_London, 2001_

Kate Aquila opened her eyes, blinked, then opened them properly before shifting her head slightly. Short, fine blonde hair tickled her nose, a mans solidly muscled body was pressed against hers from in front-naked, she could tell, from certain parts of his anatomy that she could feel more than see. He was asleep, his head under hers, his breath warm on her bare skin, his cheek pressed lightly against her breasts...

Julian Lazarey, also known as Sark, the up-and-coming freelance Agent in the world of Espionage, a handsome young man just twenty years old whose blonde hair, blue eyes and sharp good looks had caught her eye at first. When she'd had time to take in the solid muscularity of his form and the easy, almost feline grace of his movements, she'd done more than just take a good look.

He'd noticed and, with slow, almost insolent grace, had returned the favour, appraising her from head to foot in the restaurant they'd both ended up in. Her chestnut hair was thick and curled, highlighted by darker patches brought out in the sun, her skin was tanned almost golden from a long time abroad in sunnier climes of late. Her black evening dress had been deliberately inviting, slit up one side to the thigh, off-the-shoulder and basically kept on by a close fit around the ribcage.

If she'd breathed in too hard she knew her dress might just have fallen free at the top-and, for fun, she wasn't wearing anything but a pair of slinky panties underneath, so if her dress fell everyone would have gotten a good look. She'd had a Date then, of course, a handsome young twit who hadn't a single clue that his "Date" could have strangled him with his own intestines and slept like a baby the same night. But she'd simply forgotten about him after seeing Sark.

Sark had been wearing what was clearly a tailored dinner suit, so black it looked like he was going to a Funeral rather than dinner, with a light blue tie that set off his eyes and tanned skin set over a white shirt. His own Date had been a woman in her mid twenties, red-haired and green eyed with the kind of physique and figure which made grown men and women drool. But she'd also, one look in the eyes had confirmed for Kate, been about as smart as some dogs she'd met. She was with Sark for the same reason Kate's Date was with her-fun.

After they'd sized each other up, both of them had recognised the challenge posed. Eyes had met, her lips may have twitched into something between a smile and a challenge-then they'd left together, without a word. Both of them preferred a strong taste of darkness, of lacking morals and conscience, of ruthlessness in blood and bone, with their "meat"-and both liked it strong, it had turned out.

Despite his youth, Sark had turned out to be a surprisingly effective Partner and an excellent choice in companion once they'd made it to her apartment. Their clothes hadn't survived the trip to the bedroom, of course, but that was to be expected. Then he'd proven not only surprisingly vigorous-was he really only a decade younger than her?-but skilled in all sorts of ways, too. He'd actually managed to leave her satiated before they both fell asleep at almost the same time, an extremely unusual accomplishment...

She leaned forwards slightly and dropped a kiss on his forehead, then looked around at the tangled sweat-soaked sheets they were both tangled in, shaking her head. How had they managed to tie their own legs together in a knot, anyway? She'd have to see if she could remember later, when it mattered.

For all of her physical strength and exceptional physical grace and agility, it took her a full minute to work her way free of both Sark's embrace and the tangled excuse for what had been a bed before they'd both landed on and then in it. Yawning, she stood up and stretched on tiptoe-she smirked as she thought that Sark would have enjoyed the view-before picking Sark's shirt up off of the floor and pulling it on over her shoulders, doing a button up at the front to hold it on. It only just fell below her hips, since they were about the same height, but she _had_ just slept with the man...

She glanced at the bedside clock, normally on the table by the bed but currently on the floor. It was 03:55, why had she woken up now? Normally, sating herself on a strong man or woman kept her out until at least daybreak?

Had she heard a sound which didn't fit? Or sensed something which her unconscious mind found disturbing enough that she woke up? Maybe even a strange smell had triggered some part of her which recognised danger? Given her life and job, anything was possible.

Fortunately, she never failed to lock and bolt her door, her windows locked and she had thoughtfully booby-trapped all of the entrances, just in case. Nothing lethal, but nobody would be left on their feet if they set one off. Then there was the top-of-the line security system... Maybe ten people in the world could bypass her security altogether without tipping her off. Nobody had yet put up enough money for them to come after her head, she'd have known. Or the Bulldog would have.

She walked into the bathroom-large bath, shower and basin, broad, tall mirror-flicked on the light switch and stepped in front of the mirror to look herself in the eyes. Her eyes were unusually dark, as they always were whenever she reached a..."high" was the best word, she supposed. Her hair was mussed and sticky, sweat barely dried on her body. Hints of bruising were evident on her partially exposed breasts, the result of considerable enthusiasm on both sides...

Something made her feel off-centre, though, even as she should have felt deliciously relaxed, even drained. It was as though something was off in what should have been a private, safe place for her, but she couldn't quite place it, which was extremely odd in any circumstances. With her life as naturally chaotic as it was her home was one of few places she could actually control, could make _hers_, yet...?

She had a strange man she'd never met or even seen before in her bed, in her house, but all that was, all that _ever_ was to her, was a brief disturbance and an adjustment easily made. It wasn't even close to enough to distract her, let alone disturb her, so what _was_ it that was trying to get her attention-?

She saw the dark figure moving in the mirror behind her a split-second before his hand was in her hair and wrenching backwards so hard some came out by the roots. Her eyes watered and she completely lost her balance, momentarily blind, before she was slammed face-first into the mirror with such force she heard the mirror shatter the same time she felt jagged edges slice skin and flesh.

She managed to duck just enough that the glass lacerated her forehead rather than taking out an eye or cutting off her nose, then used the very fact her attacker was stronger to her advantage and fell over backwards as he drew her head back to smash her face into the glass again. He didn't let go, but she hit the ground legs spread and rammed an elbow into his groin with all of the force she could muster.

A distinctively male grunt sounded as the man staggered, a seconds distraction letting her tear free of his grip as he was left holding hairs rather than her hair, but even as she rolled to her feet with an uppercut aimed at his gut he lowered his head and charged like a bull. She missed completely as she was suddenly airborne, before she was suddenly hitting the wall behind her with such force she felt all of her ribs grind as a spike of pain shot up her spine into her pain centres like an axe to the brain.

Her vision went red and she tasted blood in her mouth, but the man didn't even pause before hammering sledgehammer blows, left-right-left-right-left-right, straight in under her ribs, taking advantage of the fact that she lacked a mans muscle to protect her guts. The intention was to inflict internal injuries, cripple or kill as quickly as possible, she didn't give him the chance.

A sharp elbow to the back of the neck almost dropped the man to his knees despite the fact his neck was corded with hard muscle. A carefully aimed punch with her weight behind it snapped a rib right over his heart. He head-butted her chest with such force the breath was blasted from her lungs before flinging her away from him, leaving her skidding across her own floor as her blood left a trail behind her.

She rose to her feet in a spinning kick and dropped into an unarmed combat stance, heedless of the fact she was effectively naked and covered in blood. The man-black full-head mask, gloves, sweater, trousers and boots, six feet odd tall and heavily built-turned around and threw a large shard of glass at her like a throwing knife before charging in behind.

She slapped the glass out of the air bare-handed, braced for the charge, then somersaulted in a tight roll right over the man and landed right behind him. He was quick for his size, but she was quicker and a kidney punch delivered with the heel of a foot drew a heavy grunt of pain from him. He span in a roundhouse attack, but she ducked in under the strike-only to take a knee to the chin.

Blood exploded from her mouth as her teeth went through her lower lip and she bit her tongue, staggering her, but the man followed through with a vicious kick to the ribs which lifted her clean off of her feet and slammed her hard down on her back. She rolled left, dodging an attempt to stamp-crush her head, caught the second strike and twisted just hard enough to throw off her attackers centre of gravity. He fell onto his back with a hiss of pain-and she used his falling dead weight to pull her up to her knees.

She slammed an elbow down on his broken rib as she fell onto the man-and his body jerked. He stared at her, anger slowly giving way to pain, then panic and even fear as he realised just what she'd done. She rose on her hands and knees to loom over him as he writhed for a few seconds, before he seemed to convulse-then he coughed up blood. More, far too much blood...

"That's right, I stabbed you in the heart with your own broken rib. Hurts, doesn't it? Want to say something before you die? Anything?" she asked, helpfully.

The man just glared at her, either unwilling or unable to make a sound, apparently. Then he managed to spit out a mouthful of blood while staring her in the eyes, spraying her with it in the process.

"Evolution will have its way, Disciple of the Old Ones" the man hissed, before coughing up yet more blood-then he twisted and vomited, before suddenly going dead-still with a noise she well knew was a death rattle. She checked, but knew what she'd find. The man was dead and had told her nothing...

Sark was standing in the doorway in red boxer shorts, she abruptly noticed, a gun in his hand and a bemused smile on his face. Apparently, he hadn't slept through the whole thing after all.

"Do all your dates have such an intriguing conclusion, might I ask? I may have to come back again if so" said Sark, making no attempt to disguise the fact that he was enjoying the view, even with all of the blood.

"Sark, believe me, this is nothing..." she replied, with a smirk, even as she wondered at the odd last words of the man. She pulled off his mask, but he was nobody she knew, she was sure of that at least. Her unusual beliefs and her activities connected to them were not complete unknowns, but nobody who knew of them would talk, they'd seen-in all cases-just what could happen to people who mocked her.

How, then, had this man known what he clearly did? What had he meant? "Evolution would have its way"? What did _that_ mean?

Most importantly, who wanted her dead now and why...?

/End of Chapter 41. All Reviews welcomed/.


	43. Chapter 43

Legal disclaimers: see earlier Parts.

Disclaimers: see earlier Parts.

**The Last Day**

_LA General Hospital, one day ago_

The closest Sydney Bristow could get to Michael Vaughn while he underwent surgery was watching from the Observation booth above the theatre. She would have been in the room in scrubs if she could have been, there to hold the hand of the man she loved as he fought for his life, but the Surgeon had simply said no after taking one look at her.

She couldn't blame him, she was a wreck, her makeup smeared across her face from tears, bloodstains on her jacket and shirt from where her hands had made contact with Vaughn's bleeding body after her mad dash from APO, barely able to hold herself together for all of her formidable self-control. She hadn't broken down like this since finding out what her Father had been doing from the day of her birth, a "Mission" of his own he'd never intended her to know about...

The Surgeon, a burly man with grey hair and hard blue eyes, was twenty tears older than her at least and had clearly seen every kind of reaction and emotional response there was to someone being told their loved one was going into Surgery in critical condition and might not come out. He hadn't even blinked in the face of her near panic and evident desperation, her face still damp from tears. He had simply-firmly but not unkindly-told her "No" and pointed out where she needed to go. She'd been in the booth waiting five minutes before the emergency surgery began.

She had to clench her hands together to stop them from shaking, especially as she could do no more than look down at the unmoving too-pale body on the surgical table below her. She even had to bite her lip to stop herself from falling apart again so completely that she broke down on the floor here and now, which would help nobody, not even herself.

She'd been the first member of the team to reach Vaughn's side, to find him lying unconscious face-down on his chest on the platform, a pool of blood slowly spreading around him, soaking through his clothes, his skin cool and his breathing shallow. The three jagged stab wounds in his back had been horrifically evident, deep cuts gouged wide open, in one of which she knew she'd glimpsed the white bone of his exposed spine despite the blood pouring out.

She was no Doctor, but she knew just how serious wounds where bones and vital organs were exposed or damaged could be. On top of that, she had little doubt that Vaughn's spine had to have been at the least clipped by the knife during the attack, maybe even damaged. If the injury was severe, it was really possible that Vaughn would never walk again, or even be left paralysed...

"_Sydney_. Relax. You aren't helping anyone, including him or you, by letting yourself become so frantic with worry you can't even think straight" came Sloane's cool voice from just behind and beside her. Wisely, he didn't try to touch her, in the state she was in she'd have punched him for it and he clearly knew it. Surprisingly enough, though, the very fact it was Sloane and the way he was, as ever, cool and unaffected by what was happening helped her regain some perspective.

It was odd, in fact, as she thought about it. Her Father would have said what he knew she needed to hear, then simply made himself available as a beacon of strength for her if she needed him-maybe even just to hug. Marshall's constant talking and worrying would have derailed her own, because she would have been reminded that there were others out there who cared for Vaughn who were always there for him-and her-too. Weiss wasn't actually very good at sensitive chats or talks, but he always knew when silence was the best response and when just having a friend nearby would hold her together.

Nadia would have just been who and what she needed, it was a bond she and her Sister had developed while they'd lived together than, she presumed, just something that a close Sibling knew. She'd never had a Sister until a year ago, though, so she was still getting used to the fact. Dixon...it still hurt her to think about her old Partner, but he'd known her better than anyone until she'd met Vaughn. He'd have just put an arm around her, let her rest her head on his shoulder and let her know he'd be there for her, no matter what, when she needed him, as ever...

"I know, I know, it's just... You didn't see how cut up Vaughn is before they took him off, some of the injuries he had... I don't know what to think, or what to do. My Father, my Sister and my friend need me, my Team needs me, my country needs me, I _know_ that. But... I look down at Vaughn and think, if I'm right, he may never walk again, ever, _if_ he lives. How can I not be here to be beside the man I love when he wakes up?" she asked, almost forlornly. Some part of her was appalled she was genuinely opening up to Sloane, easily the most untrustworthy and one of the most evil men she'd ever met. A much smaller part, though, found her glad that he was there to talk to.

Well, Sloane and his Wife had looked after her for a while as a child, when her Mother had "died" and her Father had gone to jail for a while-not that she'd known that at the time. From what faded, confused memories she retained, she'd bonded immediately with Emily, Sloane's Wife, who loved having a child around the house to look after. Sloane...he'd been more distant, controlled, but he'd still somehow filled the void her Father had left when she'd needed someone, every time. Apparently, some flicker of that childhood faith and trust remained, even if she knew far better after almost thirty years.

"You know the kind of man I am, Sydney, so moral platitudes would mean nothing coming from me. What I will say, though, is that everyone on this team went into this knowing the risks, well aware that death could be the outcome, you know that better than most. We were selected and placed where we were, where we are, all of us, because we get the job done no matter what" replied Sloane, stepping into view to her left.

"Dixon was as fine a man and Agent as I've known in close-on forty years in this business, but he died in the line of duty helping save Nadia's life during the mission and we both know it. I truly wish I could at least have paid him back for the effort, even if it was just to shake his hand and say job well done, but now I never can. It's not the first time I've lost Agents, it won't be the last, but he was an example to us all. Never give up, never give in, keep going until it's done, then mourn your dead and move on" Sloane continued, peering down at Vaughn as he spoke.

"I arranged the assassination of Dixon's Wife, Diane, after he shot Emily dead by accident trying to kill me. You know that, but Dixon... He wanted me dead in the worst way after that, for _years_, Sydney, but he controlled himself so he could get the job done and never let personal feeling get in the way. I knew he'd kill me the moment I stepped out of line, I never had any doubts about it. However..." said Sloane slowly, turning to face her at last.

"He never spoke more highly of any Agent he ever worked with than you. In SD-6 he chose you as his Partner when, with his record, any Agent would have been proud to work with him and would have followed his Orders without hesitation to prove it. He trusted you with everything, from having his back in the field to the lives of his children if he was taken or killed. Are you the woman and Agent he believed you are, Sydney? Or not?" Sloane asked, looking her straight in the eyes.

"You know I am, you bastard" Sydney replied with a deep sigh, trying and failing to fault Sloane's logic and simply throw some of the hate she carried about inside her at him. Dixon would have made sure she was safe and in good hands before getting the mission done, no matter what, he'd always excelled at focusing on the job in hand. How could she do any less after he'd given his life for his country, saving her Sisters life in the process?

"Bastard I may be, but I only do what must be done Sydney. I need you on a plane with me an hour from now, pack and run" said Sloane, pulling out his Mobile phone as he spoke. Sydney blinked and turned sharply to look at the older Agent, eyebrows raised, question evident on her face.

"Isn't it obvious? With Dixon dead and Vaughn down we need every Agent in the field we can get. APO's job is to stay below every radar, though, so there is a limited amount of manpower available, which includes Marshall and myself. Marshall is setting up a mobile command post ready for transport as we speak. I need to arrange for reinforcements to meet us on-site and a full security load out for Vaughn before we go. I should hurry if I were you" said Sloane, before turning his attention to his phone as he dialled a number.

Sydney just turned and left, well aware that Sloane would have everything set up and running exactly on schedule if he said he would. The mans attention to detail and focus was, along with his supposedly former obsession with Rambaldi and his works, barely the right side of madness. When he was absolutely focused on _anything_ Sloane's mind focused more intensely than a laser and cut through the possibilities to get to the truth like a diamond drill.

She had little doubt that the same skills that had made him such a good Agent for the CIA and then SD-6 had made him, at least at one time, quite possibly the most effective and efficient hunter-gatherer of Rambaldi's works and artefacts seen since the Second World War, even including her Mother, Irina Derevko. The question in her mind was, after over thirty years of obsessive focus on _any_ one goal, was a man like Sloane, was a _mind_ like Sloane's ever truly capable of letting go of a thing like Rambaldi? Even for the love of his own child. Lost to him for almost thirty years...?

Y

Seraphine Nagel didn't smoke cigarettes, but after the life she'd led she had...temper problems. More than once, when she'd been working for the DGSE, she'd actually discovered she'd lost time-and, every time, she'd "woken up" to discover the body of an opponent so mauled and damaged that a Psychotic would have been proud. Torture wasn't a strong enough word for what she'd discovered, every time. What was left of her enemy just...wasn't human any longer.

She'd been evaluated as a result and, not at all to her surprise, she'd been diagnosed as a Sociopath, borderline Psychotic, with possible Schizophrenic symptoms. She could have told them all of that, if they'd just asked, but her problems had been getting worse as she got older as a result of "Severe Trauma, physical, psychological and physiological". Simply put: she was crazy and heading towards outright madness, if not insanity.

For all of that, she'd been too valuable, too simply efficient and effective for them to loose, so a solution had been devised. The drug combination she injected into her body once a day, not easy to get hold of outside of Military and Intelligence circles, but people were too scared of her to ask questions. That enabled her to function and smothered the symptoms enough that she could live normally-or whatever passed for normally to people like her, she supposed.

Then there were the herbal cigarettes that she smoked, a "sedative for the Soul" it was described as. The herbal remedy acted on the chemicals in her brain to stop her temper "issues" from manifesting, but again masked the symptoms rather than dealing with them. If she was kept off of her medication for forty-eight hours? She knew there was simply _no_ telling what she'd do. She was an extremely highly-trained Assassin and Intelligence Agent who had been doing what she did for eighteen years, if she wanted to kill someone they died, it was that simple...

So she sat atop a building in a loose grey t-short and leggings in a deck chair someone had thoughtfully left out, small, circular black sunglasses covering her eyes, enjoying the last of the days sunshine on her bare feet, arms and face, her hair down and loose behind her as she relaxed-physically, at least. It was pointless worrying overmuch, after all, stress did nothing but cause mistakes-she knew that better than anyone. Professionals, after all, didn't make mistakes.

Her Mobile phone rang, the theme music for the TV. show "24" echoing. Jack Bauer reminded her of her, besides which Kiefer Sutherland had the kind of rough edges she liked in her men, even if he wasn't, disappointingly, actually as crazy as the character he played. His Surfer-boy good looks didn't hurt, either, since he wasn't afraid to whip his shirt off and show why one should appreciate the view. Of course, if she ever got her hands on him she'd teach him whole new ways to make sure he stayed in shape with that physique...

"Yes?" she asked, snapping the phone open and putting it to her ear, well aware that it could only be one of two people. Only Jade and Sloane had her unlisted direct number, "unlisted" as in "didn't exist". Besides, even if someone managed to track the call, they wouldn't get more than a hundred-metre location bearing on her.

People she'd associated with over the years had raised the art of disappearance in plain sight in the technologically overwhelming late twentieth and early twenty-first century to a master-class in not being seen, heard or even suspected, by machine or man. It was more than a necessity, when even a hint of one's presence could lead to a group of soldiers with no ID dressed all in black, packing explosives and machine guns, kicking down your front door at three in the morning. These days' people even had to watch out for satellite surveillance which could read your newspaper over your shoulder.

She could disappear in a crowd so completely and quickly that a camera would loose her, knew for a fact her home base was a complete unknown to anyone and any organisation in the world and had made sure nobody at all had a sample of her DNA. Pictures of her existed, yes, but even for a woman with her looks changing one's appearance, to effectively disappear inside your own skin, was far easier than most thought. She didn't get tracked, followed or bugged unless she wanted to be.

"_Its Sloane. I need you in Berlin as soon as possible, rendezvous time and coordinates to follow. Details will be related in person_" said Sloane, speaking quickly and clearly but being brief on purpose. She could appreciate that.

"Done" she replied, then they both hung up. Well, it appeared she was back in action...

_New York_

Noah Vosen wasn't a young man, being in his early fifties with black hair going grey, his face lined with marks of age advancing on him, but his grey eyes were still as hard, sharp and intense as they'd been when he'd joined the CIA at twenty over thirty years ago. The mind behind those eyes was even sharper, with the benefit of experience added to a natural cunning and the ability to be ruthless enough to see the job done, no matter what.

He was a smart man, everyone who dealt with him knew that, but he was no genius and had never suggested he was. What he was was _capable_, an individual who would do _anything_ to achieve a goal. He'd manipulate, use, betray, kill or simply abandon anyone or anything if he had to and never loose sleep over it. People who knew him said he'd never suffered a broken nights sleep in his life because guilt was for people who had a conscience, who understood emotions enough to have friends, even loved ones.

Noah Vosen had neither. He only ever saw angles, not people, which made him remarkably useful to people who needed complicated "issues" dealt with by a reliable agent who understood the need for discretion, even when it involved tying up loose ends which just might be people, in the wrong place at the wrong time. When it came to the CIA, Vosen had never, under any circumstances, betrayed a secret he had been entrusted with, even under torture. When it came to outside of his profession, however? Everyone knew all bets were off.

Vosen was tall, just over six feet, lanky and clean-shaven, his slim black glasses making him appear younger than he was, his physique that of an ageing athlete sliding into a softer middle age. His dark-blue suit was sharply cut, with a tie of the same colour perfectly settled around his neck over a light-blue shirt. A long black overcoat fell to just above his feet and flowed up behind him as he walked, sometimes making it seem as though a dark shadow was chasing behind him and was always on the very edge of catching up.

Despite his smart dress and almost smiling face as he strode down the hotel corridor, however, nobody would meet his eyes. The reason was very simple: nobody dared. Vosen simply wasn't the kind of man who encouraged observation of any kind. In fact, he made sure it didn't happen more often than not-and employed varied, effective methods to do so. Meeting his eyes was like staring into an empty room with all the doors and windows not only closed and locked but boarded up, with something terrible waiting for you in the shadows...

The two men with him were both easily twenty years his junior, smooth-faced and hard-muscled, big men both wearing black suits and ties with white shirts which seemed intended to project menace and a sense of danger to anyone who saw them coming. Both had shoulder holsters with weapons concealed under their shoulders, like Vosen, but unlike his their weapons were large and solid, evident if they simply stood in such a way. Both men were former Delta Force soldiers who had seen combat, Vosen made a point of never having Bodyguards who hadn't proved themselves under fire.

With dusk beginning to fall, Vosen and his men were heading out of the hotel he'd checked into to make some important calls outside of an area where any official organisation might monitor him. The hotels name wasn't important, what was important was discretion and security-and the right money bought everything he needed. The employees and owners had unusual means of making sure that their clients always got what they wanted, as well as what they needed, so he made sure to use it-or the few others places like it-when off-the-books work needed to be done.

Associate Director of the CIA or not, he knew better than to actually believe assurances that secure areas of Langley actually were, especially given the self-evident fact that every intelligence Agency in the USA was in constant competition with all of the others. They competed for the Presidents ear, funding, resources, manpower and other things, things that the public would never know about. They spied on each other to gain even the smallest advantage-and, more often than not, people ended up dead in some forsaken place as a result.

The world of intelligence work was a dark, dirty, ugly place where blood as often came from your allies as your enemies. There was just as good a chance it would be yours, in fact, he knew that as well as anyone-and it was a world he thrived in. He'd always excelled in doing what needed to be done-and he had a long way to go yet. There was much more he could do for his country-and that his country could do for him.

His car, a solid black design of American origin, was waiting by the curb, the driver in the seat and the engine running, as Ordered. The people walking past on the pavement almost unconsciously gave room, not that any of them could have said why, but he knew. On a level none of them could have comfortably identified, they all knew to avoid men like him and those with him, people they knew could and would kill or worse without hesitation if necessary. On some level he liked that, it made matters...easier, not to have to worry about people getting close to him.

A Bodyguard stepped forwards and opened the door-even as a fine wet spray suddenly drifted over Vosen's cheek. Vosen blinked, presumed he'd caught the edge of a spray of water from somewhere, raised his hand to wipe it off and discovered, when he looked at his fingertips, he was wiping off blood... Before he could react, or even begin to turn, his second Bodyguard seemed to simply collapse into the car before falling out again as gravity pulled him down.

He finally managed to turn around, blinked-and found himself staring down the barrel of a clearly Silenced pistol aimed right between his eyes. He didn't have time to focus on the wielder before a foot crashed into his rib cage and literally blasted him backwards into the car, the top of his head colliding briefly with the edge of the doorframe. He saw stars and lost his concentration, by the time he recovered the car was moving and his mystery assailant was seated in the back seat beside him.

By his estimation, his Bodyguards had both been killed within ten seconds and he'd been abducted in less than twenty. Nobody had even realised what had happened yet, evident by the lack of screams or sounds of alert. Whoever was doing this was a professional, which left his chances at a very poor level where escape was concerned, quite possibly survival was highly unlikely as well.

He twisted to try and get a better look at his captor as he tried to rise, but the butt of the gun came down on the top of his skull with almost frightening force as he moved and he barely caught a glimpse of dark skin and hair as his attacker knocked him out. He did, though, get a good look at the drivers face-and he didn't need a second, even after only a moment, to recognise the much older man who had somehow replaced his driver.

_Jason Bourne_.

/End of Chapter 42. All Reviews welcomed/.


	44. Chapter 44

Legal Disclaimers: see earlier Parts.

Disclaimers: see earlier Parts.

**The Last Day**

_New York, 2004_

The train rattled and swayed as it rolled over the rails, a steady double thump every few seconds announcing fresh contact and escape. But for the dim streetlights by the tracks the night was as dark as an evening in a major city became, with the dirty metal of the trains side and grimy windows doing little to reflect and so spread the light anywhere.

A slight fog had arisen as night fell, thick and dusty, spreading around quiet streets and across still-busy tracks. To some, it made the night simply more sinister, reminding those who had something to fear of the fact that darkness hid what they were hiding from as well as they themselves. To others, like the Old Man standing looking around and out of the train's window, it was a comforting sight. It reminded him that nothing ever really changed or went away, it was just hidden away for a while, then revealed.

He was tall, six feet and just over, but a slight stoop disguised the fact, while a battered old baseball cap, a dull grey in colour, did more than one might expect to conceal his weathered face from curious onlookers. Black shoes, flat-soled for running, were on his feet, while old black jeans and a dark-blue fleece jacket covered a washed-out grey shirt. It was humid and warm in the sweaty way only New York in summer could be, but the Old Man, who looked at least in his mid sixties, wasn't sweating at all. Nor did he look remotely uncomfortable, as though he was used to far worse temperatures and places than an old train in New York in the dead of night.

His name was David Webb and, to those who knew him, it was no secret he was a long, long way and time past being bothered by anything as simple as the weather or mere physical discomfort. In fact, it was no exaggeration to say that he couldn't even remember the worst conditions he'd ever known. His shattered memory had never repaired itself, even after he'd spent almost thirty years trying to remember who he'd been and what he'd done.

He'd made his peace with his past, though, that man wasn't who he was any more. Now, he had a family and friends who kept him grounded, alive and alert and willing, in the present. Sometimes, though? He had no choice but to look back.

He sighed, turned back to the cabin he and the man he was here to meet were to meet in, slid open the door and sat down opposite the man already there. The man was reading a New York Times which concealed everything excepting crossed legs and big, strong hands with small scars, although not the fact the man was dressed in a black suit with razor creases and a pure white shirt, as though he was going to a funeral. Although, Webb couldn't help but think, it was likely more appropriate to suspect that the other man intended to attend one soon.

The newspaper was lowered and rolled up into a long, straight Billy-club design, leaving Webb staring straight into the cold eyes and emotionless face of Jack Bristow. Roughly ten years younger than Webb in reality, Jack Bristow had suffered in his lifetime in ways which made him look ten years older than the Old Man and which had taken away his ability to use his expression and eyes to show what he was thinking.

He'd never say it aloud, but Webb sometimes wondered if Jack Bristow was a living example of who he would have been if he'd never lost his memory and then gone on to meet the woman who would become his Wife. If so, he was glad that man had, in reality, died that night in 1978. He had almost no memory of the man he'd once been, but being what Jack Bristow had become, living the way he did? The only thing which kept Jack human, which made his life worth living was his Daughter. Webb's first family had died long, long ago...

Which led him straight back to why he was here, now, meeting an old "friend" under such unusual circumstances. Jack Bristow had lost everything he cared about in life except for Sydney Bristow, so the man would cross any line, kill anyone he had to to protect her. Webb knew exactly how Jack felt, he'd do anything at all to keep his Wife and children safe, no hesitation, remorse or second thoughts. Therefore, he'd come when called.

"Well?" asked Jack, his voice almost a growl, steepling his fingers under his chin. Webb didn't think Jack would physically attack him, let alone kill him if he said the wrong thing, but when it came to Sydney? All bets were off.

"Jack, I'll take it to Alex and pass the word out, you know I will, but after almost a year? She could be anywhere on this planet, doing anything with anyone. She could even just be in a hole in the ground somewhere, having escaped from whoever took her but with no way to reach you or anyone else who could help, scared to death and all alone. Lets face it, if they breached Project Christmas? She might truly not know who she is or what she's doing. All I can do is offer you help and hope, no more" said Webb, holding his hands out to show his helplessness.

Jack's hands clenched into fists, his knuckles whitening as a muscle jumped in his left cheek, but then he visibly forced himself to react. For Jack Bristow to show that much emotion? He was very, very angry.

"I understand that, I promise you, but I cannot and will not let this go. My Daughter is alive, a Father knows these things, which means she is out there somewhere, suffering, maybe even in pain or worse and I? I can't help her, I can't even find her-yet. I appreciate your accepting my word that she is still alive, David, but I cannot and will not accept that Sydney can simply be..._taken_ from me this way" said Jack, shaking his head slowly.

"I never knew my Father, he left when I was too young to remember him. My Mother died when I was a teenager and I never knew any other family. My Wife was _never_ either who or what I thought she was. My Daughter is all I have, she is all I honestly have left. So understand this: I will see this whole world burn before I will even consider giving up on her, let alone abandoning her. She _is_ out there, I _will_ find her, it is as simple as that. Also, I will owe you a debt if you help me do so" said Jack, with a nod.

"If this was a child of mine, Jack? I'd hope you'd be right there beside me with a match. Say no more-did you hear that?" replied Webb, raising his head as his ears, still sharp despite his advancing age, alerted him to the sound of a light footstep where nobody should have been. Jack just nodded...

Two men came through the door suddenly, dressed all in black right down to ski masks, one with knuckledusters and the other with a police baton. Jack was on his feet by the time they were within reach, the newspaper in his hand lanced out like a knife point-first and hit the man with the knuckledusters in the eyes even as he took a swing at Jack. The man staggered, reeled and went down on one knee-Jack got him in a headlock and neatly broke his neck.

The second man went for Webb, but the Old Man didn't even try to rise. Instead, he smoothly ducked the strike at his head, twisted his wrists in such a way that the Shiv knives he had concealed in wrist sheaths fell smoothly into his hands and struck back with professional skill. The right-hand knife went under the mans rib into his heart, the second punched through meat and muscle and ground against his spine, leaving the attacker both paralysed and dead.

The entire fight had taken something less than thirty seconds, neither Jack or Webb had even been honestly disturbed by it. Webb shook his head, a sneer on his face. Jack held up a finger for silence, Webb nodded, then Jack stepped out into the passageway after looking out both ways to make sure no more trouble was immediately evident.

Making his way along the carriage in the dull lighting, silent as a cat, Jack was grateful there was nobody else around-then a man stepped out of the doorway twenty feet from him with a silenced gun in his hand. Jack knew he was dead-for the second before a knife flickered past him and took the other man in the eye.

The man took a single step back, dead on his feet, then the gun dropped and fired once, punching a hole in the floor, before he collapsed in a boneless heap. Jack didn't breathe again until he was sure the man was dead.

"Now you owe me two, Jack" said Webb, walking past to collect his knife, which he cleaned on the dead mans clothes. That done, he started to rummage through the mans clothes looking for ID, found some, opened it up-and froze. Then, very slowly, he turned to look at Jack, before unfolding the ID so Jack could clearly see it himself. The letters CIA were very evident, the first thing Jack saw.

"Well, Jack, we both just committed Treason" said Webb, slowly. "What should we do for an encore, do you think?" he finished, quietly...

/End of Chapter 43. All Reviews welcomed/.


	45. Chapter 45

Legal disclaimers: see earlier Parts.

Disclaimers: see earlier Parts.

**The Last Day**

_Undisclosed location, one day ago_

Noah Vosen regained consciousness slowly, the hellfire burning inside his head only adding to the feeling of having been tied up inside a ringing bell for days as his centre of gravity seemed to shift, even though he wasn't moving. He felt sick and weak, could feel the breath rasping in and out of his dry mouth as he breathed, suspected that his skull was fractured-and that he was soon going to die, even as sound and sight began to come back.

He was upright in a seated position, but only because he'd been tied to a chair by his wrists and ankles. His shoes were gone, bare, cold concrete was underfoot. His hands and fingers functioned, so he could tell that the chair was made of steel. He couldn't hear much of anything, but was fairly sure that two people were in the room with him. Worryingly, though, he couldn't hear the sound of vehicles, any murmur of conversation or the hum of electricity.

There was no indication of the presence of the modern world at all-which likely meant he was on his own, somewhere quiet and remote. That meant he was going to be tortured or killed, most likely both. Well, he wouldn't crack, if they thought he would they hadn't done their homework. If he died? He died, someone else would simply pick up where he'd left off. He almost wondered what they'd try this time...

He couldn't smell much, traces of oil, gasoline, suggestions of rusty metal nearby. Wood dust as well, maybe? Grass, certainly, suggesting they were certainly somewhere remote. Finally, he forced his eyes open, determined to at least glimpse the two who were going to kill him-and was surprised to find his glasses were still on. The two large blurs sitting opposite him quickly resolved into the two people he'd expected-and he smiled at them both, his smile a thin, cold thing that gave away nothing.

David Webb was seated on a chair just like his own, legs crossed, hands and arms on armrests, reclining and evidently at ease. Noah didn't know the man personally, very few did even inside the CIA, let alone outside it, but he knew what he was facing. Better than most, even, since he'd studied all of the documentation and records, audio and visual, kept by the first incarnation of Project Treadstone.

In his day, the man once known as Jason Bourne had butchered his way up and down Vietnam during the bloodiest days of the conflict as a professional Assassin for the US Military and CIA. Black Ops, so far off the grid and out in the cold that nobody would have even noticed if he'd been butchered or taken up Serial Murder as a hobby. The top Agent produced by Medusa, an organisation which never officially or legally existed, created of a madman's combination of killers, addicts, psychopaths and natures too disturbing to describe, Bourne had been the worst of the worst.

He'd even killed his own Half-Brother when he'd caught the younger man betraying his unit, executed the man without hesitation. He'd been so cold-blooded, so calmly efficient even his Handlers, CIA officers escorted by Special Forces, had been afraid of the man and what he might, or could, do. People simply wouldn't even just sit down and have a conversation with him, it had been described as talking to someone who'd seen Hell and liked the view.

That same nature and skill had gotten him the Treadstone Mission with the CIA-and killed the man he had been when he'd been shot and gone overboard in the English Channel. Waking up Amnesiac, he'd _still_ almost gone on to complete his mission despite not even really being aware of what he was doing-or why. He'd given up three years of his life to get to the Jackal, then lost everything-even his own past-before he was brought back in. Then they'd forced him back in, twice, to deal with other operations only Jason Bourne could carry out...

No, he didn't know David Webb, but he knew the type-and few of those had possessed the skills and experience Webb did. Simple fact: in this situation, Webb would be capable of _anything_ to get the job done. Maybe that would make a difference, maybe not.

The woman, though...he had no idea who she was, or what, none at all. Long dark hair, skin so dark she was barely visible in the darkness of the abandoned old structure they were in, a place dimly lit by sunlight and a little electric light. Hard muscle was easily evident on arms and legs, even under her clothes, while she moved with a sensual, almost feline grace that was both alluring and disturbing. So physically beautiful the words to describe her didn't come easily.

He would have made her for either a Spy or an Assassin given the relaxed ease she displayed, hands in pockets, as she merely stood staring at him, her bearing and simple physical appearance making it obvious this was not someone who went to the Gym for an hour every day to look good. No, the kind of physical development and presence the woman displayed had highest-order training and practical experience written in-she'd killed, he could tell, more than once.

But he revised all of his opinions when he made the mistake of looking her in the eyes. Eyes were the key, he knew that from long, hard experience, with very rare exceptions-and neither subject was hiding from him here.

David Webb had eyes as cold and empty as anyone Vosen had ever known, but if you looked closely enough you could see anger, fury, incredible frustration barely held in check by remarkable strength of will. David Webb may have moved on from his hellish past and remade himself for his Wife and children, but that man was not at peace with himself on the inside. Not at all. That, though, while possibly making him easier to manipulate and upset, also made him just more dangerous.

A man like that would be capable of anything to get the job done, thanks to the simple fact that he wouldn't see it, or anything else, as too much or too far to succeed. If Webb went to work on him, Vosen had no doubt he'd end up as little more than chopped meat by the time the man was through with him. But, maybe, he'd be able to trick Webb into killing him before he could be forced to give anything up?

The woman, though... There just wasn't anything _there_, nothing but a black hole that was never touched by the light, an individual who went through the motions because she thought it was expected of her. The only thing he could be certain of with her was that he meant absolutely nothing to her, likely just like whatever passed for humanity in her mind. If she'd ever cared for someone, it had been burnt out of her so completely that even traces weren't left.

_Her_ he feared, he'd met people like her in Iraq, Afghanistan, various prisons in certain South American and Middle Eastern countries. Monsters was too small a word, people like her were creatures who did what nobody else could and simply did it because they could. They didn't care, probably couldn't, enjoyed the work for the sake of simple professional satisfaction and never failed.

The US Government even employed a few, for very specialised work-and Vosen made sure he was never left alone with one. If she'd been one of those people? He'd know, part of his job involved dealing with them, which only made matters worse. Whoever the woman, was, whatever she did, she was capable enough that she'd hidden her nature away from everyone, possibly including the Government itself, with so many layers of tests and security, for who-knew how long. Professionals, meet your Mistress, he couldn't help but think...

"Noah Vosen, understand two things now. First, you will not leave this place alive, or at all, if you do not answer our questions truthfully. Second, we know who and what you are, but even the CIA don't know where you are or who took you. They'll find out, I have no doubt, but by then it will be far too late. Here, now? You are our plaything, no more no less. Do you understand?" asked the woman, her voice smooth and clear. American? Yes, but there was a trace of an accent from a very different part of a world in there too...

"I'm...not unfamiliar with interrogation processes and techniques. I presume your holding me here because I know something you want to know" replied Vosen, slowly, having to concentrate hard to make his mind and mouth work properly. Definitely a concussion, likely a severe one given the quite extraordinary pain that was flaring around in his skull. He wondered if he was suffering from bleeding on the brain, too? That would kill him without warning.

"Good start, go on" replied Webb, speaking for the first time. His expression was utterly bland, of course, giving away nothing, even his eyes were hooded in a way which made reading what he was thinking impossible. If he hadn't possessed the ability to lock away his emotions and hide away every thought which crossed his mind with total self-control, Webb would never have succeeded as an Agent in Medusa originally, let alone later as Jason Bourne.

In fact, given the limited access Vosen had to the original Medusa and Treadstone Operational Files-which were still Classified to the point even the Director of the CIA had to get authorisation from the President directly to read the unedited copies-he suspected Webb, as Bourne, set the standard for an Agent of his calibre during the Vietnam War era. Besides which, in a War where so much dirty work was being done even people in Langley and at the Pentagon at the highest levels didn't know exactly who was doing what at all times? Jobs which needed to be done tended to land on the shoulders of those best suited for them-and Webb was a killer without compare in his prime.

"The question is...why would you go so far as to kidnap a senior member of personnel in the CIA to get the information, rather than make other enquiries?" Vosen continued, wincing at a particularly savage shot of pain shot through him. It didn't stop him staring at either of them, let alone memorising the woman's face and appearance, of course. Not that the feat of memorising her looks was difficult, he'd rarely seen a more physically beautiful woman...

"You, David, you know better than to go about doing this the way you have. I never knew him, but the Alex Conklin you knew would have taken your head off with his bare hands for this from what I've heard. Almost forty years associated with the Agency and you think we'll ever forget this? _Forgive_ this? Your _dead_, David Webb, you just don't realise it yet. As for _you_..." said Vosen, turning to look straight at the woman.

"I don't know who you are, happy to admit it, but I never forget a face. You leave me alive, even if you torture me until I break? Even if you leave me a raving madman in a hospital bed to the day I die? Look me in the eyes and tell me I won't find a way to reach out and slit your throat when you least expect it" Vosen almost snarled, baring his teeth in a vicious grin. Then he sat back, almost reclining.

"Just so we're clear? That's all the talking I'm going to be doing with either or both of you. Do what you feel you have to, I'll see you both in Hell" Vosen spat out, running through every form of resistance to interrogation training he'd ever been put through. Bravado notwithstanding, he wasn't sure the two people with him wouldn't be able to break him. It didn't change the fact that he'd die screaming before he talked, if he could and that was what it took.

The woman stood up and stretched like some great cat unwinding itself, her movements causing her body to do things which Vosen found himself unable not to watch. Then he took in Webb's smile and started to worry-before he began to get angry.

Did the man actually think you made Associate Director of the CIA by being easy to break? So stupid as to blurt out secrets that had to be kept for the sake of national security, secrets which would cost lives and careers, maybe even a Presidency, if they got out?

The woman strode over to him, leaned over and looked him straight in the eyes at his head height. Despite himself, he flinched on meeting her eyes. Her eyes were so dark and empty people could get lost in there...

"I, Anna Neagley, do promise you, Noah Vosen, that when I am through with you? You will have to learn how to breathe, eat and walk all over again. You won't remember what's going to happen here because the mind has to protect itself from some memories to save you from insanity-and everything connected to either David or I will be associated with that fact" Neagley began.

"I know things about pain and suffering that nobody sane does. Why? I am not sane, Noah, you are just a slab of meat to me, I'd sooner slaughter you than a Cow because at least the Cow is entertaining. Pain can even be fun, if you do it right, I've made people tell me every secret they have and even have a heart attack in shock when I've just shown them photographs I've prepared. You understand, Noah?" asked Neagley, her voice totally reasonable.

He didn't say a word in reply, but it wasn't out of determination not to. All of a sudden, he was simply too scared.

"Shall we begin as we mean to go on?" asked Anna, softly... Just before her right hand snapped out and dug into a nerve cluster near Vosen's shoulder, where strong, sharp fingers dug in so deep he almost felt like the muscles in his shoulder and chest were being burnt while still inside him. He was dead silent for a moment, he even stopped breathing the pain was so awful...

Then he screamed, making a sound he couldn't believe had come from a Human throat, let alone his own mouth. He screamed as darkness clawed at him behind his eyes, he screamed as his heart accelerated to a manic pace, he screamed as he felt his throat go raw as he couldn't even stop to breathe, as pain forced all the air from his lungs but stopped him from passing out. He screamed in pain that he didn't know could exist-then everything stopped, in less than a moment.

He couldn't even guess at how long it had been, or how much time passed afterwards before he even became, in the most dim of possible ways, that the woman-Anna Neagley, some part of his mind reminded him-was still standing over him. He didn't want to know, either, he needed all of his strength and focus to maintain his resistance, even though he doubted he could after just what she'd started by doing. Then he felt more than saw her lean over so her lips were by his ear...

"Tell me everything you know, Noah Vosen", she said, in a voice which he knew wouldn't change if she was brutally murdering someone or chatting about the weather. "About Project Treadstone..."

/End of Chapter 44. All Reviews welcomed/.


	46. Chapter 46

Legal disclaimers: I don't own or lay claim to Jason Bourne or anything original to either the books or films. Nor do I own or lay claim to the TV show Alias or anything original to the show. Both of these belong to people who are likely much smarter and are by several levels a lot richer than me, so I'm just borrowing them for the purposes of telling this Crossover story. I do, however, own anything original to the story, so ask if you want to borrow it.

Disclaimers: Apologies for the extended break between Postings, bad case of Writers Block and computer problems. I'm getting back into this now, just hope I remember what I originally had in mind myself.

**The Last Day**

_The Lincoln Memorial, National Mall, Washington DC, 1989_

It was dark, quiet but never dead in the late evening of the American capital city, with lights illuminating the horizon and most of the buildings everywhere one cared to look. The occasional beep of car horns, the deep beat of loud music or the simple crackle of electricity humming in the air didn't let you forget you were in the ruling city of the USA, even asleep in the dead of night, let alone when you were wide awake and stone cold sober.

Wild animals were rare but not unknown, big open spaces being good places to see them when they crept out at night to hunt or scavenge, but there was nothing to be seen tonight. It could have simply been a quiet night, late enough that the animals had retreated to the bushes and greenery to avoid even chance human contact, but that wasn't the case. Anybody who could see the Lincoln Memorial would have known why.

Standing directly in front of the Memorial a dark figure seemed to defy the lights supposed illumination, slight twists barely highlighting Slavic features, olive skin and curling black hair. Cobalt blue eyes glittered in the darkness, seeming to reflect rather than be illuminated the slight light. A black leather waist-length jacket, jeans and boots added to a pale blue shirt highlighted a woman's figure. Under one arm an almost insignificant bulge spoke of a hidden weapon only specially trained eyes would spot.

As she breathed in and out her breath formed clouds and drifted on cold night air, but she barely moved enough for human eyes to be sure she was alive beyond that. Anyone who could have looked her in the eyes and seen what was barely contained inside her would have recognised an anger inside her, so deep-rooted and wild that her expression was better described as feral than angry. That would have been for the one second it would have taken before they realised that she was just looking for a release, any release-and they ran, Praying to live and knowing they wouldn't survive.

Her name was Mavra Kalia Rasputin and, according to what almost everyone who mattered knew, including her "employers", the KGB, she was preoccupied in Afghanistan at the moment, slaughtering her way through Mujahideen in ways that would terrify children and make adults fear the dark a century later. She, though, had other priorities-in fact, only one overriding one. A man, a CIA Agent, who's Fate was going to be written about in the Bible as an example of the Devil's work when she was through with him.

The almost-silent footsteps that were approaching at a measured pace let her know her reason for being present in front of the annoying monument had finally arrived, so she turned and took him in even as he slowed on realising she'd heard him coming. He tried to hide his irritation, but failed-she could read anyone, whether she knew them well or not. Sometimes, being so...different...to others had its advantages.

Elegantly tall and thin, six feet of hard, slender muscle packed around a compact frame, pale blonde hair still refusing to even suggest a trace of grey despite the fact she knew the man was in his late forties, just like her. Grey eyes that could have been chipped out of million-year-old ice for all the warmth they showed, so sharp they could cut. Handsome in the way the dead are, face smooth and serene and utterly lacking in expression, he was wearing a black suit and tie and a white shirt. The man looked like he'd just come from a Funeral.

She knew better. Samuel "Samael" Shepard was the CIA equivalent of her, the best "Dirty Work" Agent they had and, easily, their top Assassin. People said he'd toppled entire Governments in South America for the CIA using a single bullet and his bare hands-and she believed them. He said he did his own killing, just like her-and he'd once spent an entire year, she knew for a fact, tracking a single KGB Agent who'd managed to breach NSA security across three continents and on behind the Iron Curtain. After killing the man, he'd gutted him and left him hanging from the bell at the top of a church steeple by a rope made of the mans own intestines. She'd seen the remains, it had been an impressive way of saying "Do not fuck with us" to her mind, especially since he'd gotten clean away afterwards.

Under other circumstances she'd have suggested they go somewhere more private and do it _hard_ until one of them passed out from exhaustion, people like them so rarely found an equal. But she knew Samuel was Married, happily, to a Wife he adored-and that he'd cut his own throat to chase her into Hell dead if she even spoke to his Wife. So it was left at mutual respect-and the occasional attempt to kill each other.

"You are the only person I know I cannot surprise, Mavra" said Samuel, his accent from New York with a strong hint of his native Texas, shaking his head. "Even though I shouldn't be, _I_ am surprised about this, though. Coming to me for access to a CIA Agent so you can butcher him in a way which would make the Devil himself wince? Don't care who he is, that's asking a lot" Samuel, considered, looking at her legs. He refused to meet her eyes, smart man.

"No, it isn't, Aldrich Ames is scum of the kind that hides in a place so dark it can only been seen in Hell precisely because those there know what to look for. He's betrayed good men and women for bad reasons, including money, booze, drugs and, from what I hear, sexual favours. He's betrayed everything and everyone he claims to believe in and has sworn an Oath to protect and serve. In years gone by people who did what he's done were broken on the Rack and their remains fed to wild dogs, their head cut off and mounted on city battlements as an example" snarled Mavra, fists tightly clenched.

"But he's done worse than any of that, he's come after _me and mine_. Nobody on this _**Earth**_ takes from me, Samuel, not while my heart still beats, but _he_ took one of only three people I've ever loved and left her for dead in a way I would have reserved for Stalin after I saw the Gulags if I was in a _**really**_ bad mood. So it's as simple as this" said Mavra, turning and striding over to Samuel with an expression on her face that would have seen anyone who hadn't long since forgotten what it was like to be covered in blood stepping backwards quickly.

"Aldrich Ames is _**dead**_, he's going to die in ways I'm going to invent and reinvent just for him. Doctors are going to see what I've done to him and weep, then spend years trying to work out how I could do all those things with him still alive. I'm going to feed him parts of his own body never intended to see the light of day a bite at a time over whole _days_ of pain. I'm going to use means of inflicting pain the Spanish Inquisition wouldn't because they saw just doing so as an offence before _God_. I'm going to make him scream in ways which will wake up entire cities with nightmares" Mavra said, getting right up in Samuels face even as she lost more and more control.

"Is it not clear just how much I really do _**hate**_ this man for what he's done, Samuel? His life as a bipedal vertebrate is over, all he has left to understand is suffering and he's going to suffer a week for every hour Elena suffered, just to start with. He's never going to sleep again, rest again or know anything but how much you can suffer, or just loose, or both, while still alive. By the time I'm through with him there won't be enough left for him to keep begging me to kill him to make its stop" she said, before barely reining in her temper. She'd killed for no reason at all before now, but this...

"I'm telling you this as a courtesy, one professional to another, but if I have to break into Langley to see him die in pain I'll do it in such a way I'll bring the building down with me. Whether or not that happens is up to _you_" she snarled, eyes flashing-then Samuel looked up and looked her straight in the eyes. That made her pause, if just for a moment.

"Mavra, if things were as simple as that, I'd collect a surgical kit, rubber gloves and a variety of more interesting pieces of equipment, weaponry included, collect Ames myself, go with you to a secluded place and lend a hand. For as long as it took. But this is _not_ simple" replied Samuel, shaking his head.

"Ames is, I don't how the Hell he did it, linked with Project: Black Hole, which ties right back to that old bastard Milo Rambaldi, which reaches all the way up to the White House. With what you and I have both seen and know Ames deserves a death so filthy that every Medic or Surgeon who examines what's left of him pukes their guts up on sight and recommends cremation for the sake of their sanity. But, if he's being protected by forces inside the Project, then going after him is a Suicide run for the two of us" said Samuel, pausing to shake his head.

"They have access to tech we can't even imagine, let alone deal with, for all we know just getting within twenty feet of the man could see us go up like human torches as a result of the use of a piece of defensive technology we don't even have a name for. I'll die with a smile on my face to kill scum like that, but I won't commit Suicide on the off chance that I could _possibly_ reach him. Nor should you, one professional to another" replied Samuel, slowly, seeing the expression on her face.

"Motherfucker! Figlio-di-a-bastardo della femmina! Scopata! I don'la t crede questa! Я съем его Печень и сниму его лицо! Я выпью его кровь! Трахнитесь! Θα ψήνει την καρδιά του σε ένα ραβδί σε σιγανή φωτιά! Κάθαρμα! You're telling me he's _**untouchable**_?" Mavra almost screamed, grabbing the lapels of Samuels jacket with such force his feet nearly left the ground.

"_**No**_. He simply can't be touched...for _now_. We know he's scum, we know he can and will suffer for it, we just have to wait...and I, for one, will never forget. When the time comes, I will be precisely where he least expects me with a smile and Plans. What about _you_?" asked Samuel, making no attempt to free himself, pointedly.

Mavra paused, then smiled. "I like your Plan, so, assuming it works out, we'll take care of this together. Lets Plan for pain" she replied, before letting go. Samuel stepped back, settled his jacket, straightened his tie and nodded his head. She knew he'd remember-and keep his word, just like her.

"So...while we're here, do you have any idea what happened to Kevin Flynn? Encom has gone from being market leader to liability overnight with him gone, yet even his Parents and friends have no idea where he's gone, or even if he's still alive. Did the CIA Black Book him? I ask because I know your Daughter was working with him at Encom so I know you'd know" said Mavra, with a sigh, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Actually, no, nobody at all seems to know what happened to him or where he could have disappeared to like this. He went to his Arcade one night and just disappeared off the face of the planet. On top of which our Profilers say that he'd never abandon his Son, Sam, after he lost his Wife back in 85'. Whatever happened to him? We may never know, but my opinion is that he's dead and buried in a shallow grave somewhere, happens every day" said Samuel, before looking at her sharply.

"Before you ask, Giselle doesn't have any more idea than I do-and I looked into it for her. She said she knew he was working on something big, but he wouldn't tell her what and she never saw it. Whatever it was he didn't keep notes and records on it anywhere outside his head, I made sure" said Samuel, softly, as he took in a deep breath.

Mavra didn't say anything else, there was simply nothing else to say.

/End of Chapter 45. All Reviews welcomed/.


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